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.

Far away among the mountains, the sunlight loves to linger, and the moonbeam is wont to dwell among the quiet recesses of a lovely valley, over-shadowed by rugged steeps, that frown above and darken around a calm and silvery lake, embosomed amid the solitudes of the wild forest hills.

Around on every side, arise the hills, magnificent with the shade of the sombre pine, leafy with the branching oak, or verdant with the luxuriance of the green chestnut tree, while chasms yawn in the sunlight, ravines darken and fearful rocks, bear and rugged in their outline, tower far above the forest trees, away into the clear azure of the summer sky.

The hills sweep round the valley in a circular form, describing the outlines of the sides of a drinking goblet, while far below, the limpid waters of the lake, repose in the depths of this collossal vessel, giving a clue to the strange name of this place of solitude—The Valley of the bowl.

This quiet vale is situated some few miles from Florence, amid the same wild range of mountains that encircle the haunt of the members of the Holy Steel.

The light of the summer morning sun, was streaming gaily over the roofs of a mountain hamlet, clustered beside the shores of the lake, flinging its golden beams over the outline of each rugged hut, with tottering walls, or rustic tenement, with its ancient stones overgrown with leafy vines; when a group of peasants were gathered along the road-side, at some small distance from the village, in earnest and energetic conversation.

A short, thick-set and bow-legged youth, clad in the garish apparel of a Postillion[2] of the olden times, stood in the centre of the group, while around him were clustered a circle of the buxom mountain damsels, with their heads inclined towards each other, their arms and hands moving in animated gestures, as a boisterous chorus broke on the air, from the glib prattling of their busy tongues.

“Now, Dolabella,” said the young man to a tall, black-eyed, dark-haired damsel, of a very swarthy skin; “now, Dolabella, it’s in vain you try to make a fool of me. I don’t believe any such thing—that’s all.”

Having thus spoken, he searched earnestly with his finger along his chin, and at last discovered a starved fragment of beard, which he pulled with great gravity, at the same time looking intently upwards, as if bent on discovering the evening star in broad day-light.

“Well! our Lady take care of your wits, good Signor Rattlebrain,” thus answered the buxom Dolabella, “whether you believe it or not, makes not a whit of difference to me. But I tell you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, that last night, just about dark, as I was walking near yon cottage on the hill, with a beech tree on one side, and a chestnut on the other—”

“What!” interrupted the small, hazed-eyed Loretta, “mean you the cottage which the tall, strange old woman hired but yesterday?”

“The very same. Well, just as I was walking there, all alone, I heard a footstep!—”

“Our Lady!” exclaimed Theresa, who was distinguished by her hair of glowing red.

“Our Lady!—but you do not say so?” exclaimed the other.

“I heard a footstep, and stepping aside into the bushes, I saw a dark looking monk enter the cottage, and he was followed by a big, rough soldier; and he was followed by such a handsome cavalier, dressed in such a gay dress, and O! bless ye all—he wore such a fine, dancing feather in his cap! Upon my word, it waved like a sunbeam in the evening twilight!”

“What color were his eyes?” asked Loretta.

“Was he tall or short?” inquired Theresa.

“I suppose you will say next, that he had a manly figure? eh?” and the youth pulled his slouched hat fiercely over his right ear, and then halting on one leg, he threw the other forward, while with his arms placed akimbo, he seemed waiting for somebody or other to take his portrait.

“To be sure he had a manly figure,” returned Dolabella, glancing contemptuously at the bow-legged youth; “he was none of your whipper-snapping, strutting, and boasting postillions; he was none of your conceited—”

“Dolabella!” exclaimed the youth in a pathetic tone.

“Well, Signor Francisco?”

“Dolabella, do you see the convent of St. Benedict yonder?”

He pointed to the dark and time-worn walls of the monastery, it stood among the forest-trees on the western side of the lake, upon the summit of a precipitous cliff, which towered in rugged grandeur from the bosom of the mountain waters.

The cheerful sunbeam was shining over the dark towers of the monastery over the surrounding forest-trees, and along the recesses of the gardens, that varied the appearance of the wild wood beyond the ancient walls, and the white cliff gave its broad surface to the light of day, yet there was an air of gloom resting upon the entire view, the dark towers, the white cliff, and the luxuriant gardens; while the reflection of the scene in the deep and mirror-like waters of the lake, was so calm, so clear, so perfect in the faintest outline, that it looked more like the creation of an artist’s pencil, than a landscape of the living world.

As the pompous Francisco pointed to the dark walls of the monastery, an involuntary thrill ran around the group of peasant damsels, and there was a pause of strange silence for a single moment.

“The Monastery of St. Benedict!” murmured Dolabella, “Francisco, fear you not to make yon strange house the subject of your jest, even in broad daylight? The cheek of the boldest peasant of these mountains grows pale at the mention of yon gloomy fabric!”

“Tis said the ancient Dukes of Florence held strange festivals within those dark gray walls in the olden time.”

“Even now, no one knows anything concerning the monks of this monastery. They give to the mountain poor with a free hand and a liberal blessing—yet, beshrew me, strange rumors are abroad, and muttered whispers speak of midnight orgies that it would shame an honest maiden to name, held within yon darksome house!”

“I jest not!” exclaimed the postillion; “I jest not. I am in earnest—by the True Cross, am I. Did you ever hear of the legend of yon whitened precipice? How a desperate youth threw himself from the rock, down into the ravine—and—and—mark me—if on some very bright and agreeable morning I should be found laying at the foot of the awful steep, scattered into a thousand fragments—then think of the victim of your perfidy, Dolabella. And you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, think of the miserable fate of Francisco—your victim—with remorse—with bitter remorse!”

Having thus given the damsels to understand that among them all, his heart was certainly broken, the little postillion strutted away with folded arms and a measured step. Indeed, by the immense strides he took with his inverted legs, it did really seem that he had been hired to measure the greatest possible quantity of ground, in the shortest possible number of steps.

The damsels replied to this pathetic appeal by a burst of laughter.

“I’ll tell you what we shall do,” said Dolabella. “This little whipper-snapper has been making love to all three of us, for nearly two years. Let us pretend to be desperately enamoured of this strange cavalier at the cottage.”

“O yes—yes!” cried Theresa.

“Certainly! O certainly!” exclaimed Loretta.

“That will bring Signor Postillion to terms,” continued the tall damsel, “and besides girls, we’ll learn all about this strange old woman.”

“This strange priest!” said Loretta.

“And this handsome cavalier!” cried Theresa.

And presently they separated; each determining to out-wit the other; both in regard to the strangers in the cottage on the hill, and to the securing of the gallant vagabond Francisco, who to do him justice, had those two important qualities necessary to winning the heart of a vain woman—saith the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.—a glib tongue and a rare knack of making presents of all sorts of gairish finery.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH. THE BRIDAL EVE. THE HEBREW AND THE ARAB-MUTE ENTER THE COURT YARD OF ALBARONE, WHILE THE LADYE ANNABEL IS PASSING TO THE CHAPEL OF SAINT GEORGE.

The azure sky was glowing with the mild warmth of the summer twilight, the zenith was mellowed with the light of the declining day, the western horizon was varied by alternate flashes of gold and crimson, when the ancient Castle of Albarone, thro’ every hall and corridor, rang with the shouts of merriment, and the gay sounds of festival revelry.

From the various towers of the castle, pennons of strange colors and curious emblazonry, waved in the evening air, each flag, the trophy of some hard fought battle, while high over all, floating from the loftiest tower, the broad banner of the House of Albarone, gave its gorgeous folds, its rich armorial bearings, the motto in letters of gold, and the Winged Leopard, to the ruddy glare of the western sky.

The lowered drawbridge, and the raised portcullis, gave admittance to numerous bands of peasantry, wending from the various tenements that dotted the domains of Albarone, all clad in their holiday costume, while the air echoed with their light-hearted laughter, as the merry jest, or the gay carol, rang from side to side.

All along the hill, leading to the castle gate, and thro’ the luxuriant wood circling round its base, hurried the peasant bands, their attire of picturesque beauty, giving variety and contrast to the scene, while now loitering in groups, now hastening one by one toward the castle, they peopled the highway, and thronged over the drawbridge into the court yard of the castle.

Walking amid these gay parties, yet alone and unaccompanied save by a solitary attendant, there strode wearily forward a personage who to all appearance ranked among a far-scattered people, at once the scorn and fear of Christendom.

Clad in a long coat of the coarsest serge, varied by numerous patches, with a piked staff in his hand, and a pack somewhat extensive in shape, strapped over his broad shoulders, the slouching hat which defended the head of the JEW, revealed a face, dark and tawny in hue, stern in expression, marked by a sharp and searching eye, whose glance seemed skilled in reading the hearts of men; a bold prominent nose, while the lower part of his cheeks, his chin and upper lip, were covered by a stout beard, which, black as jet, descended to his girdle, mingling with the long and curling locks of sable hue, that gave their impressive relief to the outline of the Hebrew’s countenance.

By his side walked his slender-shaped attendant, to all appearance a youth of some twenty winters, yet his tawny face, marked by bold and regular features, half-concealed by masses of jet black hair, falling aside from his forehead, in elf-like curls, was marked by a deep wrinkle between the brows, a stern compression of the lip, and a wild and wandering eye, that glanced from side to side with a restless and nervous glance, that seemed to peruse the face of every man who came within its gaze, and read the characters and motives of all who journeyed onward to the castle.

Attired like his master, in garments of the coarsest serge, the Servitor of the Hebrew, bore on his shoulder, a voluminous pack, which seemed to oppress its bearer with an unusual weight, for he well-nigh tottered under the load.

Without heeding the sneer, and the jest which assailed him from every side, the Hebrew crossed the drawbridge, and passing under the portcullis he presently stood in the midst of the castle yard, where unstrapping his pack, he displayed his rich and gaudy stores to the eyes of the wondering multitude. His servitor also displayed his pack to their gaze, but stood silent and unmoveable, his arms folded, and his wild eyes glaring strangely over the faces of the crowd.

“Who’ll buy—who’ll buy?” cried the Hebrew, in the suppliant voice of trade, as casting his eyes around the court-yard, he surveyed the brilliant scene at a glance.

Around, all dark and time-worn, the walls of the castle—each casement blazing with torches—looked down upon various groups of the peasantry and servitors of Albarone, some engaged in light and gleesome gossip, while others were hurrying hither and thither, on errands pertaining to the feast which was to grace the castle hall on the morrow.

In front of the arching roof of the kitchen door stood the gray haired sharp featured, and sharp voiced Steward of the castle, engaged in superintending the operations of a number of hinds, who were severing the limbs of various fat bucks, and cutting up certain lusty beeves, and preparing various kinds of game, for the vast fire that blazed on the kitchen hearth.

Farther on, a minstrel was entertaining a circle of peasants, with the song of love, or the tale of knightly valor; at a short distance, the privileged fool, with his cap and bells, and fantastic dress, was uttering his merry quips and far-fetched jests, which ever and anon he varied by a nimble summersault, while the gaping crowd held their sides as their boisterous laughter broke upon the ear, with all its jovial discord and dissonance.

“Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!” shouted the Jew, “here’s broaches for ye damsels fair—broaches and gauds, rings for your fingers, and crosses of ebony for your bosoms. Look ye how this heart of gold would sink and swell on a maiden’s snow white breast! Here’s plumes for the warriors’ helmet; daggers for his belt, and trappings for his steed. Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!—Here’s ornaments of gold and silver for the doublet of the page, essences for his flowing hair, and chains for his neck.—Who’ll buy—who’ll buy.—Broaches, gauds, rings, gems, plumes, belts, trappings, perfumes, chains, laces of gold! Who’ll buy! Who’ll buy! Gentles, list ye all! Chains, laces of gold, perfumes, trappings, belts, plumes, gems, rings, gauds, broaches. Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!”

“The Virgin save us all!” exclaimed Guiseppo who stood among the crowd that gathered round the Israelite, “the Virgin save us all, but there’s a tongue for you, my good folks.”

This was said with an attitude of mock astonishment, and corresponding grimace of the features.

“An’ my tongue suits ye so well, gentle sir, may-hap you’ll try some of my wares?”

“What have you, Sir Gripe-fist, that it would become me to buy?”

“Everything to suit a gallant page, everything. Except three wares with which the great merchant—Nature—must provide him, or else he’ll make but a sorry page.”

“And those wares—how do you style them?” asked the page.

“The first,” replied the Jew with a demure look, “the first ware is somewhat dull and heavy, it is labelled—Impudence—may it please thee fair Page.”

“Thou heathen hound, thou!” exclaimed Guiseppo, half amused and half angered. “How name you the second ware? Eh! Leatherface?”

“The second ware,” the Jew replied meekly, “the second ware is light and feathery. It bears the name—Self-conceit. As for the third—”

“Aye the third,” interrupted the page. “Go on my black bearded friend—go on—I’ll borrow a good oaken towel to rub you down, when you have done.”

“As for the third, it is the stuff of which the two others are made. It is heavier and duller than Impudence, and lighter and more feathery than Self-conceit, they style it Ignorance. And these three wares are the sole contents of the cob-web-hung storehouse of Sir Page’s brain. An’ it likes thee, fair sir?”

The Israelite bowed low as he spoke.

“Ha—ha—ha! fairly hit! Ho—ho—ho! The Jew turns Scholar, and preaches like a monk.—He—he—he! The trim Page is hit—fairly hit.” Such were the exclamations that went around the laughing crowd.

“Now receive thy pay, thou son of Sathanas!” exclaimed Guiseppo, brandishing an oaken staff; “here’s at thee!”

“Nay, nay!” exclaimed one of the spectators, “thou art fairly hit, sir Guiseppo.”

“Aye, aye, fairly hit,” cried another; and “The Jew has paid thee in thine own coin,” a third shouted, throwing himself in the path of the page.

“Nay, nay, let him come!” cried the Jew, with a sneer. “Let him come. I’ll tame his pageship.”

“Dost thou mock me, thou dog!” As he spoke, the page raised his oaken staff, and whirling it around his head, he aimed with all his strength at the sconce of the Jew, who coolly turned aside the blow with his upraised arm, and in an instant he had Guiseppo by the throat.

He whispered a word in the ear of the page, and then, unloosing his hold, he began to gather up his wares.

The eyebrows of the page elevated with astonishment, and his lips parted. The bystanders gathered around Guiseppo with various expressions of their surprise at the sudden change that had passed over him.

“Why stare you so?” exclaimed a peasant maid.

“Art mad?” asked one of the yeoman of the guard.

“Perhaps moon-struck?” suggested another.

Guiseppo made no reply, but walked slowly away, while the Jew remained standing in the centre of the group, with his servitor waiting silently by his side.

“Look ye, son of Moses,” cried one of the yeomen, advancing toward the Jew, “why stands this man of thine so silent and still? He moves not, nor does he speak; but his wild eye is glancing hither and thither like a fire-coal. Why does he stand thus mute and speechless?”

A grim smile passed over the bearded features of the Jew.

“Ask a post why it does not speak, or ask a war-horse to troll ye a merry song! You are a keen yeoman and a shrewd, yet did it ne’er strike ye that my servitor might be incapable of speech? A poor Arab boy, gentle sirs and damsels, whose dying father gave him to my care, when perishing on the field of battle, in the wilds of Palestine, some twenty years agone.”

“A son of the paynim Mahound,” muttered the yeoman, with a look of scorn.

“Nay he is of the faith of Christ,” interrupted the Jew. “Behold, he wears the cross of Rome!”

“A sweet youth, and gentle-faced, though somewhat sad in look,” murmured a peasant matron, gazing with a look of pity upon the tawny face of the Arab mute.

And while the group of peasant men and women clustered around the Jew and his Arab boy, a cry ran through the castle yard, echoed from lip to lip, and repeated by the crowd thronging the place, until the air seemed alive with the shout: “She comes, she comes! The fair Ladye Annabel is passing to the chapel of St. George! Make way for the betrothed! Make way for the Ladye Annabel! Make way for the Duchess of Florence!”

In a moment the court-yard was occupied by two files of men-at-arms, who extended from the great steps, ascending to the massive door of the castle hall, along the level space, making a lane for the passage of the Ladye Annabel and her train. The crowd came thronging to the backs of the warriors, gathering around the staircase, and blackening on every side, eager to behold the betrothed of his grace the Duke of Florence.

Foremost among the throng at the bottom of the stairway, his pack lashed to his back, and a small casket in his hands, the black-bearded Jew appeared to take great interest in the scene progressing before his eyes.

The Arab mute stood at his back, half concealed from view, and unseen or unnoticed by the survitors and vassals of Albarone.

In after times, some of the vassals remembered well that they observed the wild eyes of the Arabian glaring fiercely over the shoulder of the Jew, while his right hand was thrust within the folds of his coarse gaberdine, and his entire appearance denoted a mind agitated by some fierce resolve.

A low, solemn peal of music broke on the air, and a ruddy blaze of light was thrown from the recesses of the massive hall doors. In a moment a band of cavaliers, attired in all the glitter of spangled cloak and waving plume, came from the hall, and took their position on either side of the staircase, each gay cavalier holding a torch on high, while the gleaming light revealed each handsome face, wearing the polished smile, and the costumes varied with strange fancies of embroidery, and fashioned after every manner of device, were disclosed in all their luxuriance and splendor.

A murmur ran through the crowd, and the gaily-attired form of his grace of Florence issued from the hall door, followed by the slight figure of the Count Aldarin.

As they took their positions on either side of the hall door, the crowd below had time to notice the strange contrast between the Lord of Albarone and the Duke of Florence.

Aldarin, pale in face, slender in form, attired in his robes of solemn black, the cap of dark fur on his forehead, with the blaze of a single gem relieving its midnight darkness, standing silent and motionless on one side of the hall door, his keen gray eyes half hidden by his brows, as though he was absent with thoughts of more than mortal interest.

The Duke, the gallant Duke, all show, and glitter, and costume, a doublet of white satin encircling his well-proportioned form, a cloak of the most delicate crimson depending from his left shoulder, the hilt of his jeweled sword glittering in the light; while his dainty cap of pink velvet, with the snow-white plume thrown aside from its front, surmounted his vacant face, marked by the neatly circled hair, the carefully trimmed moustache and beard. His eyes glared vacantly to and fro, and it might easily be seen that his grace of Florence was on a mental excursion after his looking glass.

This flashing of torches, this gallant array, heralded the approach of the Ladye Annabel, who presently emerged from the hall door, followed by a long line of the bower maidens, arrayed, like their mistress, in flowing robes, white as the mountain snow untouched by the summer sun.

The face of the Ladye Annabel was pale as the attire that enveloped her slender form, and she leaned for support on the arm of her black-eyed cousin, the damsel Rosalind.

Pale and beautiful, the victim of the sacrifice of the morrow, neither returned the deep inclination of the head with which the Duke of Florence greeted her appearance, nor glanced upon the countenance of her father; but slowly moved down the steps of stone, her eyes downcast, and her face calm as the sculptured marble.

“She is pale,” murmured Aldarin, “pale as death! She walks with the measured step of the victim walking to the living tomb!”

“I’ faith, she is beautiful!” muttered the Duke. “My bride will hang like a pleasant costume on this royal arm!”

The black-bearded Hebrew gazed upon the Ladye Annabel with a keen and searching eye, while the Arab mute, standing at his back, bowed his head low on his breast, and veiled his face with one hand, as the other was thrust within the folds of his coarse doublet.

Slowly the procession ascended the steps of stone, one foot of the betrothed was upon the pavement of the castle yard, when a rushing sound was heard, a hurried footstep, and the Jew rushed through the men-at-arms—flinging himself at the maiden’s feet, he threw open the casket which he held in his hand.

“Fair ladye,” he cried, in a deep-toned voice, “It is the lace—the lace of price, which two days since I promised to procure thee. ’Tis worth its weight in gold—aye, an hundred times over! Look, ladye—’tis the best that gold or favor might procure.”

The Ladye Annabel started at the uncouth appearance and bearded face of the Jew, while the bystanders seemed struck dumb with his audacity.

In an instant cries of execration arose on all sides. The Count Aldarin advanced hastily to his daughter’s side, while the Duke of Florence muttered an involuntary oath, as two of the men-at-arms raised their swords to hew the Israelite to the earth.

It was a fearful moment, and the Jew seemed to feel that his fate was wavering like the sunbeam on the point of a brightened dagger.

He made a quick gesture to the Arab mute, he seized the wrist of the fair Rosalind, and looking her earnestly in the face, whispered a hurried word in the maiden’s ear, deep and piercing in its import, yet inaudible to the group clustered around.

Rosalind turned pale, started quickly aside, but in a moment seemed chiding herself for this folly, as with a smile on her lip she spoke to the Ladye Annabel in a low and murmured tone. Annabel started, with the quick convulsive start that follows an overwhelming surprise.

She started, but in a moment recovering herself, she exclaimed with a firm voice, and extended arms—

“Touch him not—do the Jew no harm! It is by my command that he is here. Sir Merchant,” she continued, with a smile of kindly meaning, “you will wait for me, in the hall of the castle—there will I look at your wares when the evening mass is done.”

“This is wondrous strange,” murmured Aldarin. “Some changing woman’s fancy, I trow—”

“Certes, the lace must be rare in texture, and quaint in device!” half muttered the Duke. “Yet I never knew that there was magic in the mere mention of such costly gear, before this moment!”

The men-at-arms released the Jew, and the procession passed on towards the more distant precincts of the castle, where the light of many torches presently streamed from the arching windows of the chapel of St. George of Albarone, showing in full and beautiful relief the snow-white forms of the maidens, passing through the sacred door of the church followed by the Count Aldarin and the Duke, environed by a glittering throng of cavaliers.

Meanwhile, alone and in the darkness, deserted by the crowd, near the hall door, stood the Hebrew and his Mute Servitor, gazing ardently upon the receding procession, until the last cavalier disappeared within the walls of the chapel.

Then it was that a grim smile passed over the bearded face of the Jew, while the Arab boy started wildly aside clenching his hands with sudden agitation, as the strains of the Holy Mass, floating from the chapel, broke upon his ear.

An hour passed. The holy ceremonies of religion had ceased to echo through the walls of the chapel. The Ladye Annabel attended by her maidens had again passed into the castle hall. Beside one of the pillars of the lofty door, stood the gallant Guiseppo, his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the heavens above.

Guiseppo was enrapt in the mysteries of a sombre study.

He was just wondering what the stars could be made of, whether they were veritable balls of fire, unstable meteors, or angel’s eyes—how it chanced that they were lighted up so regularly every night, stormy ones of course excepted—where they went in day-time—and then he fell to thinking of angels, fairies, and other beings made all out of air—and from angels it was quite natural that his thoughts should pass to woman; and with the thought of woman came dim, floating visions of ancles well turned, black eyes beaming like living things, ruby lips wreathing in a smile, while they wooed the kiss of love. There is no knowing how far his musings might have gone, had he not been disturbed by the sound of a footstep breaking the silence of the castle yard. He looked in the direction from whence the sound proceeded, and beheld a strange figure, clad in solemn black, approaching from the gloom of the court-yard. It drew nearer and nearer, and Guiseppo beheld the form of the Scholar Aldarin.

He came slowly onward, toward the light burning over the hall door, and the Page remembered in after life that his face was most ghastly to behold, most fearful to look upon.

His head drooped upon his breast over his folded arms, his eyes dilated to their utmost, glaring vacantly on the earth, while his lips moved in broken murmurs, the Scholar ascended the steps of stone, as the Page observed him from the shadow of a massive pillar.

“It hastens, it hastens to perfection—THE MIGHTY SPELL! The marriage—ha, ha, Duchess of Florence!—HE shall live again—ha, ha! the world shall not say Aldarin toiled in vain! The secret—a few more days—Aldarin lives forever!”

And as the murmurs broke wildly from his lips, the Scholar disappeared within the shadow of the hall door, leaving the careless Guiseppo to the memory of that fearful face. It was an appalling memory. Guiseppo’s cheek grew pale, and his whole frame trembled with an indefinable fear.

How long he remained in this state he knew not, but after a long lapse of dreamy reverie, he was startled by a slight tap on his shoulder.

Looking around, he beheld the beaming eyes of the fair Rosalind fixed upon him with a glance which for the moment banished the face of Aldarin from his mind, and made his heart knock sadly against his breast.

“What wouldst have, Rosalind?” The maiden whispered in his ear.

It was curious to see the change that came over the countenance of the page; the pallor vanished from his visage, which swelled out on either side as though he had an orange in each cheek, his lips were curiously pursed, while his eyes rolled about in his head after a strange fashion.

“Eh? Rosalind?” he cried, as if he had not understood her aright.

Again did the maiden whisper in his ear.

“By our Lady!” exclaimed Guiseppo, “but this does exceed everything that I ever did hear. Art not crazed, sweetheart?”

“Say, Guiseppo, wilt do it for my sake!”

The bewitching smile with which this was said, appeared to complete the conquest of the page.

“I’ll obey thee,” he cried, “but surely ’tis a strange request.”

“Strange? nonsense! Never call the whim of woman—strange! Hie thee away and do ’t immediately. I will tell thee more concerning this matter in the evening. Away! away!”

And as the lovely damsel tripped lightly down the steps and wended her way toward the castle gate, on an errand whose import may possibly be revealed in future pages of this history, the page Guiseppo entered the hall of the castle, while his frame shook with a pleasant fit of inward laughter.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH. THE BRIDAL MORN. THE WEDDING GUESTS CIRCLE ROUND THE HOLY ALTAR, WHILE THE SCHOLAR ALDARIN STRIKES HIS DAGGER AT THE INTANGIBLE AIR.

The first flash of the morn that was to gild the fair brow of the Ladye Annabel with a ducal coronet, glowed faintly in the eastern sky, and the black-bearded Jew stood in the court-yard, casting his eyes earnestly about him, as if waiting the approach of one with whom he had made an appointment.

Not long did he wait, for presently emerging from a small door inserted in a wing of the castle, near the chapel of St. George, the page Guiseppo approached, with his form muffled up in his cloak of blue velvet and gold embroidery; while his slouching hat, drooping over his face, concealed his features entirely from the view.

By his side, at a respectful distance, walked the Arab mute, his head bowed low, and his face half concealed by his jet-black locks, while he tottered under the weight of his heavy burden.

As Guiseppo gained the side of the Jew, a sentinel was passing.

“Ho, sir page!” exclaimed the Hebrew, “thou seem’st fearful of the morning breeze. Hurry along—hurry along—or beshrew me, thou wilt not get the rare lace for the Ladye Annabel—the rare lace worth its weight in gold a hundred times told. Haste thee—haste thee!”

They crossed the court-yard, and presently stood before the pillars of the castle gate, which was guarded by four sentinels, attired in the livery of his grace of Florence.

“Fair sir,” exclaimed the Jew, addressing one of the men-at-arms, “I would pass through the castle gate. I am bound for the village hard by the castle. Albarone, I think you call it?”

“Wherefore abroad so early?” asked the sentinel; “and why goes Guiseppo with you?”

“Yesternight, when I journeyed toward the castle, some of my most precious wares I left behind me at the hostel of the village below. The Ladye Annabel wishes to purchase some rare and costly laces. My business calls me and this poor dumb youth away to the north, and therefore is the page sent with me; he is sent to receive the wares purchased by the Ladye Annabel. Hast any thing further to ask, sir sentinel?”

And as he asked the question, the page Guiseppo and the Arabian drew nearer to the Jew, awaiting the answer with evident interest.

It was observable that the right hand of the mute was thrust within the folds of his doublet, while his blue eye, so strangely contrasting with his dark brows and darker hair, glared fiercely into the faces of the sentinels.

“I have nothing more to ask of thee, now,” exclaimed another sentinel, advancing. “But had not the Duke sent me this pass for thee, thy servitor, and the page Guiseppo, the foul fiend take me, but I would have seen thy heathen carcass at the devil, ere a bolt should be drawn for thee to pass forth at this unseasonable hour. Thy way lies before thee, Jew!”

As he spoke, he applied a key to a small door which was cut into the massive timbers of the castle gate. The door flew open, and through the opened space the drawbridge was seen descending. One foot of the Jew was passed through the narrow entrance, when the sentinel who held the pass of the Duke, exclaimed:

“Why, Guiseppo, what aileth thee? Wherefore art muffled up in this fashion? Where are thy merry jests? Where is that magpie tongue of thine? Hast forgotten all thy mischievous pranks—eh, sir page?”

A low, moaning noise came from the mouth of the mute, as he seemed impatient of the delay.

“I have no time to trifle in idle converse,” exclaimed the Jew. “Come on, fair sir, the morning breaks, and I must be on my way.”

He took the page by the shoulder, and gently pulled him through the doorway, leaving the sentinels to their surprise at the strange silence of the mirthful Guiseppo, while the unfortunate mute slowly followed in the footsteps of the Jew, his right hand trembling with a scarce perceptible motion, as he buried it within the folds of his doublet.

With a hurried step, the Jew and his companion passed over the drawbridge, and in a moment standing upon the summit of the hill upon whose rocks and caverns the castle was founded, they viewed the winding road beneath.

The page turned his head—still concealed by his slouched hat—he turned his head for a moment toward the castle, and a slight tremor pervaded his frame.

Then his hand was extended, grasping the hand of the Arab mute, who returned the grasp with a firm pressure upon the white fingers of the dainty page.

“Let us onward! Let us onward!” whispered the Jew. “A long journey have we before us. Onward, I pray ye!”

They hurriedly wended down the hill, and ere an hundred could be told, their forms were lost to sight in the shades of the forest.

All bright and glorious came on the rising day, lighting up the cloudless azure with its kindly beams, shimmering over the waves of the broad, deep river, filling the wild-wood glade with glimpses of golden light; while the far-off mountains towered into the heavens, the white clouds crowning their rugged peaks, radiant with the changing hues of the morning sun.

And while the day wore slowly on, the paths leading through the valley toward the castle, the winding ways that passed through the recesses of the wild wood, and the great highway sweeping on toward Florence the Fair, were all alive with crowds of peasants, in their holiday attire, wrinkled age and red-lipped youth, mature manhood and careless boyhood, all hastening onward toward the castle of Albarone, anxious to behold the marriage of the Duke and the Ladye Annabel.

The day wore on, and the court-yard was thronged by strange and contrasted bands; the peasant in his gay costume, the vassal in his rich livery, side by side with the man-at-arms clad in glittering mail, while the servitors of the house ran hurriedly to and fro, passing with hasty steps from hall to hall, from gallery to gallery, as the confused sounds of preparation for the bridal feast awoke the echoes of the arching corridor or pillared hall.

The first quarter of the day had passed, and the shadow of the dial plate in the castle yard, was gliding over the path of high noon.

As gay a bridal party as ever the sun shone upon, waited within the walls of the chapel of St. George. They waited for the coming of the bridegroom and bride.

There were queenly ladies and beauteous damsels, gallant lords and gay cavaliers, blazing in gorgeous attire; there, mingling with the men-at-arms of Albarone, thronged the retainers of the Duke, robed in the royal livery of his house; and beside the altar stood the priest and the father, the venerable abbot of St. Peters, arrayed in his sacred robes, and the sage and thoughtful Aldarin, Count Di Albarone, attired, as was his wont, in the plain tunic of sable velvet, relieved by the sweeping robe of black, with his pale forehead surmounted by the cap of fur, glittering with a single gem.

Long will it be, by my troth, very long—thus runs the words of the ancient MSS.—ere the light of day will look down upon a scene so full of gaiety and grandeur.

The tall and swelling forms of the noble dames, arrayed in all the richest silks that the East might furnish, covered with gold and brilliant with jewels;—the noble figures of the cavaliers, their gay doublets hung with the symbols of the various orders of chivalry, their belts of every variety of ornament, and of every fancy of embroidery, their diamond-hilted swords, their jeweled caps, surmounted by nodding plumes and their cloaks of the finest velvet depending carelessly from the right shoulder, and falling in graceful folds over the arm,—combined with the glare of Milan steel worn by the men-at-arms, and the glitter of the rich liveries of the retainers of the Duke, formed a scene of vivid and contrasting interest.

The gallant party began to express their wonder at the long delayed approach of the Duke and his fair bride, and even the venerable abbot betrayed marks of impatience.

It was worthy of note, that for the space of ten minutes or more, the Count Aldarin had stood beside the priest, silent and motionless, with his eyebrows knit, and his lips compressed, while he gazed steadily at the slabs of the mosaic pavement in front of the altar, which, for the space of some half score paces or more, was left bare and unoccupied by the crowd.

At last, placing his lips to the ear of the abbot, and hurriedly glancing around, as if fearful of being observed, the Count whispered—

“What doth HE here?” he said, pointing to the pavement in front of the altar.

“To whom dost thou refer, my Lord Count?” inquired the Priest.

“S’life!” exclaimed the Count in a voice that trembled from some unknown cause; “S’life! I mean the stranger—he in the dark armor, with the raised vizor and that ghastly face. Dost not see him?”

“My Lord, there is no one before the altar attired in armor. Around us are the throng of Lords and Ladies—but all are arrayed in robes of peace. Mayhap you speak of one of the men-at-arms who stand yonder, near the door of the chapel?”

“Shaveling! I mean the stranger who stands in front of the altar. He with the plume as dark as death falling over that pale and lofty forehead. He who gazes so fixedly with those glassy eyes—gazes and looks, yet speaks no word. By Heavens, he means to mock me. I will strike him down even where he stands!”

He advanced hurriedly to the front of the altar, and in an instant the bystanders beheld him striking his dagger in the air, while his pale features were convulsed by a strange expression.

“Thou shalt not escape me!” he shouted.—“Elude me not—I’ll have thee, coward! This to thy very heart! What, art thou dagger proof? Guards, I say, seize this traitor! Albarone to the rescue!”

It was with a feeling of indefinable awe, that the bridal throng beheld the Count Aldarin standing with his eyes strained from their very sockets, his brows woven together, and his whole face stamped with an expression which was neither terror nor hate, but seemed a mingling of terror, hate, and despair.

Two courtiers sprang at the same time from the group, crying as they drew their swords—

“My Lord, where is the traitor? Who is’t?”

“Shall I be slain upon my own ground? Where is the traitor? Before your eyes he stands. He! I mean. Look—look! Behold! he leans upon the altar! He smiles in scorn—he mocks me!”

Aldarin stamped his foot with rage, and shrieked—

“By the Eternal God! but this is brave! Will ye see me murdered before your eyes! Seize—I say—seize the traitor!”

“Benedicite!” muttered the venerable abbot, gazing upon the wild face of Aldarin; “the fiend is among us!”

As he spoke, the Duke of Florence all daintily apparelled in his wedding dress, with surprise and vexation pictured in every lineament of his countenance, broke through the throng, exclaiming—

“My Lord Count, thy daughter is no where to be found. The Ladye Annabel hath gone: no one knoweth whither!”

“My Lord Duke,” said Aldarin in a whisper, “can’st thou tell me who is the stranger?”

“Eh?” exclaimed the astonished Duke, gazing upon Aldarin with a vacant stare.

“He I mean who standeth by the altar. He in the sable armor—with the pale brow and the eyes of fire—with the dark plume overshadowing his helmet! By heavens, I behold under his plume the crest of the Winged Leopard!”

“By our Lady, but thou describest the late Count Di Albarone. Mayhap he comes from the grave to witness against his son, the vile parricide, he who hath fled with thy daughter. May the fiend curse him for’t!”

“Fled with my daughter? my daughter fled?” shouted Aldarin, as he suddenly seemed to break the spell that bound him.

“Pardon me, my friends. Anxiety for my child—grief for my brother—have driven me mad.—My brain is fevered—I am ill. My daughter fled, say’st thou? How?—when? What meanest thou?”

The Duke hurriedly turned to Guiseppo, who stood among the throng of bower maidens, who had followed his Grace into the chapel.

“Guiseppo, advance. What said the Ladye Annabel when thou didst return this morning from thy errand beyond the castle walls in company with the Jewish merchant. Eh? Guiseppo?”

“My Lord Duke,” replied the page, “I went not forth this morning from the castle walls—”

“Saving this presence,” cried a man-at-arms pressing forward, “saving this presence, Sir Page, but there thou liest. Did I not see thee go forth this morning at daybreak?—the Jew with thee, and thy face muffled up as if thou wert ashamed of thy errand?”

“How say you?” cried Aldarin, whose native perception had returned, “His face muffled? Come hither, girl,” he continued, addressing Rosalind, who stood among the throng of bower maidens. “Girl, when didst see thy mistress last?”

“My Lord Count,” said the maiden, “I left the Ladye Annabel last night at twelve: I slept within the ante-chamber adjoining her bower. This morning on knocking at her door I found it fastened. I did not like to disturb her, so I waited—” here Rosalind seemed confused, while the blush deepened over her cheek. “I waited, my Lord Count, hour after hour, until my Lord the Duke came to lead the bride to church. Then—then—”

“By the body of God, but I see it all!” thus exclaimed the Count Aldarin. “I have been fooled—duped, and by thee, girl! Thou art my own sister’s child, but think not to escape the vengeance of Aldarin! I see all—my daughter—the wanton!—has fled in the attire of this page, he too is a plotter, he who oweth life—fortune—everything—to me! Guards, seize the miscreant! Tremble—well thou may’st! Thou hast invoked the axe—beware its fall! To the lowest dungeon of the castle with him! away! To horse—to horse!” continued Aldarin, glancing round upon the astonished assemblage. “To horse—to horse!—mount every man! Scour every road, every path in the domains of Albarone! Sweep the highway to Florence! A thousand pieces of gold to him who brings the haggard back!”

CHAPTER THE SIXTH. SIR GEOFFREY O’ TH’ LONGSWORD. THE SPIRIT OF THE CHRONICLE THROWS BACK THE CURTAIN OF FATE, AND GIVES TO VIEW SOME GLIMPSES OF THE LAST SCENE, IN WHICH THE BARBS OF ARIMANES BECOME THE AVENGERS OF HEAVEN.

Along a mossy, winding path, that led through the sunlit glades and shady recesses of a green and bowery forest, two travellers, one a stripling and the other a man of some forty winters, were wending their way, while the dew was yet upon the turf, and while the morning carol of innumerable birds arose from the bosom of the rich foliage.

—Thus in his own enthusiastic way speaks the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS. His words, it is true are somewhat redundant, but yet there is heart in them after all.—

The cheeks of the youth were strangely puffed out, his lips were gathered like the mouth of a purse, while he whistled with an earnestness that was certainly wonderful. Presently he spoke—

“By’r Ladye, but that was the most exquisite thing of all. Eh? Good Robin? The idea of thy carcass being perched upon the back of the Demon Statue in that pestilent cavern. And frightening the old Count into fits, too! Ha! ha! ha! ’Twas rich! By the Saints it was! Oh, Robin, thou art certainly the very devil for mischief! That prank of gagging the old Israelite, and stealing his beard, coat, pack and all, was cruel, by my troth it was! Where didst thou leave the old gripefist?”

“As I told thee before, thou rattlebrained popinjay!” the other replied with a good natured smile. “With a heavy heart I wended along the highway, on the eve of the bridal, thinking of the fair Ladye Annabel, when who should I behold trudging before me, but this good son of Moses. I laid him upon the earth in a wink—gagged him, and concealed him in the cottage of a peasant, whose ears I filled with a terrible tale of the Jew’s roguery; how he had stolen the plate of the castle, and so on. I then disguised myself in the Hebrew’s attire; with what success you are already aware.—After I had effected the deliverance of the Ladye Annabel, I released the Jew who ran beardless and affrighted, as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the demesnes of Albarone!”

“Where didst leave the Ladye Annabel, Robin? Who was the Arab Mute? Where is he now?”

“I left her in safety, most sagacious Guiseppo. And as for the Mute—I’ll tell thee anon. How didst feel when I came to release thee from the dungeon? eh?”

‘O! St. Peter! By my troth it would make a picture. There I sat, upon the bench of stone; the taper flinging its beams around the dreary walls, my elbows resting upon my knees, and my face supported by my clenched hands; my mind full of dark and gloomy thoughts, and my fancy forming various pleasant pictures of the gibbet, which was to bear my figure on the morrow. Imagine this delicate form swinging on a gibbet—ugh! Thus was I employed, when I heard a noise like the drawing of bolts. I started, expecting to behold the Count Aldarin; he had visited the cell an hour or so past, and informed that I had the honor of being—mark ye, my soldier—his son. I started and beheld—thy welcome visage, my good Robin.”

“Marry, it was well for thee that the secret passage was known to me. How sayst thou? Did the murderer aver that he was thy father?”

“Even so. The Count Aldarin, has ever been kind to me, yet I never thought I was connected with him by any ties of blood. I have always been known throughout the castle as the foundling. Pleasant name—eh, Robin? The tale runs that a peasant returning home, on an autumn night, discovered a child some three years old, crying in the forest. That child the Scholar Aldarin adopted, and called Guiseppo; which title was occasionally varied by the servitors of Albarone, to that of Guiseppo Stray-Devil, Lost-Elf, and others of like pleasing character. But whither are we wandering now, good Robin? This is the second day of our flight; whither are we bound?”

“Thou wilt know ere long. Didst ever hear of Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’ Longsword?”

“What, the stout Englisher! The brave knight who now commands the soldiers of our late Lord, in Palestine? He that is noted for the strength of his arms, and the daring of his spirit? Why all Christendom rings with his feats.”

“Well, my bird of a page, I have lately heard by a wandering palmer, that a truce has been made, between that son of Mahound, Saladin, and the princes of Christendom. Further it is said, that a body of the crusaders have sailed from Cyprus, and are bound to Italy. Dost see aught in this, my popinjay?”

“The Saints help thy senses! Surely you do not mean to say that the soldiers of Albarone are returning home?”

“Marry but I do. I mean to wend towards the nearest seaport; I mean to—”

“By our Lady,” interrupted Guiseppo, “I spy the dawning of our Lord Adrian’s day. I do by heaven!”

And thus conversing they pursued their way along the forest path.

Higher and higher rose the sun in the Heavens, and its beams shone upon the armor of a gallant company which journeyed in brilliant array along a bye-road leading thro’ a wide and shadowy forest.

Near the head of the company, on a stout black steed, rode a tall, stalwart man, full six feet high, broad shouldered, in form, with a stern, weather beaten countenance. His long white hair, escaping from beneath his helmet, the vizor of which was raised, fell upon his mail-clad shoulders, and his beard, frosted by time and battle toil, swept over the iron plate that defended his muscular chest.

On either side rode his Esquires, mounted on horses dark and stout, as that of their knight commander. They were brothers, and side by side had fought in a thousand battles.

Both tall, muscular, and dark featured; both having dark eyes, dark shaggy brows, stiff hair and beard of the same dark hue, they were known among the ranks of the crusaders as the twin brothers—the brave Esquire Damian, and the gallant Esquire Halbert.

Hard matter it were to tell one from the other, so much they looked alike, had it not been that the visage of Damian, was marked by a sword wound, which extending from the right eyebrow, passed over his swarthy forehead and terminated near the left temple; while a deep gash cut into the right cheek of Halbert, served to distinguish him from his brother.

In front of the knight, the standard-bearer, mounted on a cream colored steed, bore aloft a broad banner of azure. A winged leopard was pictured on its folds, and the inscription read thus—Grasp boldly and bravely strike!

In the rear of the gray haired warrior, a stout Englishman, riding on a dappled gray, held on high a crimson banner, bordered by white, on which was pictured a two-edged sword, having a long blade, and massy hilt. It bore the motto—

Then, riding at their ease, came the men-at-arms arrayed from head to foot in their armor of Milan steel; their lances were in their hands; each shield hung at the saddle-bow, and each sword depended from the belt of buff.

The gallant band might number an hundred thrice told.

Behind these soldiers come the varlets of the train, riding beside the baggage wains, conveying the sick and wounded, who had endured the burning sun of Palestine, the toil and dangers of the seas, and were now returning to the land of their birth.

And there, riding before the baggage wains, four dark-skinned Moors, mounted on prancing nags, led each man of them, a steed black as night, at his bridle rein.

Untamed they were and wild; their eyes gave forth a gleam like the light of the fire-coal; their necks were proudly arched; their manes flung waving to the breeze. With a disdainful toss of their quivering nostrils and a light and springing step, the barbs trod the earth as gallantly as though they still swept over the desert plains of Araby.

Linked with the chain of this wierd chronicle, by a strange decree of Fate, these barbs, in the course of a few brief days, became the Instruments of the fearful vengeance of Heaven.

“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, as glancing over the long line of men-at-arms, he gazed upon the Arab steeds,—“How the eye of Lord Julian will glisten when he gazes upon yonder mettled barbs! I’ faith it makes an old warrior’s heart beat, to look upon their arching crests, their eyes of fire, and their skins, black as death.”

“A Paynim warrior gave these steeds in ransom for his freedom? Is that the story Sir Geoffrey?” asked Halbert, “Infidel though he was, he gave a most princely ransom.”

“Hast ever heard the strange legend which the Arabs tell, concerning this race of steeds? They prize them, highly as their weight in gold, red gold. It is said that in the olden time, when Arimanes was hurled from his throne of Evil, by Ormaz, the Great Being of Good, the spirits of his followers, accursed and doomed, sought refuge in the bodies of a race of ebon-colored barbs, that scoured the plains of Araby with the fleetness of the wind, herding together in the vast solitudes of the desert, and untameable by man. At last, after a long lapse of centuries, the most daring of the Arab-chiefs, secured and subjugated to the control of man, two of these wild horses, from which sprung the race of the Barbs of Arimanes, or Demon-Steeds. Yonder horses, prancing and rearing in the grasp of the tawny Moors, are of this race. By my soul, their flashing eyes give them some title to the name they bear—the Barbs of Arimanes!”

“It joys a warrior’s heart to look upon their sinewy forms,” exclaimed the Esquire Halbert, with a flashing eye.

“They are slender and graceful as the wild gazelle,” said Damian, “and yet your stout war-horse of the north bears not fatigue or toil with a better grace.”

“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, “Damian, art thou not sorrowed at the thought of leaving the Holy Land—the glorious scene of so many hard-fought frays? I trow we will all wish to be again in the midst of the gallant mellay; shall we not pine for the rugged encounter with the Paynim host—What sayst thou, Halbert?”

“He that leaves so brave a battle plain as is the land of the Holy Sepulchre, without a sigh of regret, is unworthy of the lay of minstrel, or love of ladye. For my part, I would all these truces were at the devil!”

“I say amen to thy prayer, good brother.”

“Well, well, we shall soon reach the castle Di Albarone; we shall behold our brave leader, the gallant Count Julian. By the body of God, it stirs one’s blood to think of his charge, that ever mowed down the Paynim ranks as though a thunderbolt had smote them! St. George! but I have seen glorious days.”

“By’r Lady, but I have a sneaking fear that the wound of the Count may prove fatal.”

“Fatal?” shouted Sir Geoffrey, in a voice of thunder. “Fatal? Say it not again, Halbert! Fatal, indeed! By my troth, Lord Julian Di Albarone, shall again lead armies to battle.”

“I wonder,” said Damian, “I wonder if that skulking half brother of the Count, still lives? I mean, he who accompanied the Lord Julian to the Holy Land, some score of years since. How was he styled? eh, Halbert?”

“Aldarin, I think they called him. Sir Geoffrey, hadst not a quarrel with the bookworm? Didst not strike him before the Count at Jerusalem, in the presence of all the princes of Christendom?”

“Tush, a mere trifle! I mind it no more than I would the spurning of a peevish cur. But see! What have we here? Two wayfarers. Ha! one seems like a disbanded soldier! Spur forward, my merry men! They may tell us of our whereabouts: they may give us some news of Albarone. Spur forward!”

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. THE STUDENT AND THE FAIR STRANGER.[3]

The bell of the convent of St. Benedict struck the hour of noon, when a young man, attired after the manner of a student, or Neophyte of the monastic order, was slowly wending his way along the path that led to the cottage on the hill, while on his arm, there hung a youth of a slender yet graceful figure and with calm, mild features, shaded by locks of golden hair.

Tall, sinewy, and well-proportioned in form, the face of the Student was marked by features bold and decisive in their expression; his blue eye was full of thought, and his forehead, high and massive, shaded by the cap of velvet, gave the idea of a mind powerful, energetic, and formed to rule.

His hair fell in clustering locks of gold over his neck and shoulders; his plain tunic of dark velvet descended to his knees, revealing a doublet of like material and color, worn underneath, fitting closely to his manly form; while his throat was enveloped by a simple collar of snow-white lace.

His companion wore a neat doublet of light blue, fitting close around the neck, scarce allowing the pretty ruffle that circled the fair throat to be seen, and reaching half way down the leg, it was gathered around the slender waist by a girdle of plain doe skin. His light hair was covered by a hat, with the rim drawn up to the crown on one side, and slouching upon the other, while it was topped by delicate white plumes, fastened by a diamond broach.

Winding amid the fragrant shrubbery that enclosed the path, the student and his companion attained the top of the hill, and passing through the small garden, they presently stood before the neat cottage, which, shadowed by a spreading beech on one side, meeting the foliage of a leafy chesnut on the other, was overrun in front by a fragrant vine, that clomb over the timbers of the doorway, and twined round the solitary casement; the broad green leaves quivering in the beams of the sun, and the trumpet-shaped flowers swinging to and fro in the wooing air.

The student tapped at the door. It was opened by a woman somewhat advanced in life, attired in the dress of a peasant, yet with a cross of ebony strung from her neck. Her look was somewhat severe and stern, her demeanor was commanding, and her figure still retained some remains of youthful beauty.

She started as she opened the door, and an unfinished word burst from her lips.

“Ah! Adr—tush! Leone, I mean—thou art early home to-day, my son.”

“Mother,” said the student, “this is my fellow scholar Florian, son to the Baron Diarmo of Florence. In yonder convent we pursue our studies in one apartment side by side. An hour since, as we strolled through the gardens adjoining the convent, my friend missed his footing, and severely bruised his ancle. Our home being nearer than the convent, I thought I could not do better then bring him hither. I need not commend him to thy care.”

“Thou art welcome fair sir,” the dame replied, with a kindly smile. “Enter our abode; ’tis humble, yet ’tis sacred, for the bounty of the convent bestows it upon my son and me, while he is preparing for the priesthood. Come in, gentle Florian.”

They entered the cottage, and the door was closed.

No sooner had they disappeared than something rustled in the bushes and the bow-legged vagabond, Francisco, emerged into the light.

“Oh—ho!” he cried, “here’s a mystery. The convent allow old Mistress Vinegar-face to reside on their land, in their cottage, while her son is preparing for the priesthood! A likely story, by’r lady! I see it all—’tis as I suppose—these two striplings, are those, for whom such an immense reward has been offered in the neighboring towns and villages. Will not gold line my pouch as well as any other wight’s—eh? Via! Francisco! Vagabond no longer, but henceforth Signor Francisco! Via!”

Thus saying, he walked away with folded arms and a gigantic stride; and as he stalked away, the tall Dollabella, the red-haired Theresa, and black-eyed Loretta appeared from the bushes on the other side of the cot, and, bursting into a loud laugh, they tripped after the swelling “vagabond.”

Meanwhile, within the cot, resting on a cushioned seat, the gentle Florian submitted his foot to the hands of the dame, who drew off the shoe and stocking, and applied ointment to the bruise; remarking, at the same time, that the foot was one of the smallest, and the ancle one of the prettiest in the wide world.

The student glanced at Florian, and smiled.

“Mother,” said he, “I must away to the convent. Methinks it were better for gentle Florian to rest him here awhile. I will return anon, and accompany my fellow scholar along the shores of the lake to the monastery.”

He kissed the cheek of the fair boy, and departed. Looking up into the rosy face, and catching the glance of the bright blue eye of the modest youth, the dame exclaimed, as she finished the dressing of the wound:

“Fair sir, if it please thee to grace our humble tenement with thy presence for the night, thou canst share the bed of my son. Methinks it were best for thee not to stir hence until the morrow.”

“I thank thee, kind lady,” the youth began, in a voice as sweet as infancy.

“Lady, say’st thou? I am but a peasant woman.”

Florian blushed.

“Nay, pardon me—I meant no offence. Indeed, it seemed—”

The youth paused, while the blush deepened on his cheek.

“Never heed it, fair sir. This way is Leone’s room. Mayhap thou wouldst like to repose thee awhile.”

Florian followed her into a small apartment, with a window toward the east, a neat bed in one corner, a crucifix upon the wall, and a table, on which lay a missal of devotion.

The dame retired.

Florian stole noiselessly to the door, and drew the bolt. Then seating himself upon the bed, he covered his face with his hands, and the tears stole between the fair fingers, fast and bright, like drops of sunlit rain.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. THE CASTLE GATE. THE GROUP CLUSTERED BESIDE THE CASTLE GATE ARE STARTLED BY THE PEAL OF A STRANGE TRUMPET.[4]

“Well-a-day! It’s a sad thing to dwell in this lonely place, now that all of the ancient house are dead and gone!”

“‘Dead and gone,’ sir huntsman! Where didst learn to shape thy words? The Count Aldarin lives!”

“By my troth, he does, good Balvardo; and a right quiet time we peaceful folks have had for a day or so past. Here, have we no boisterous merriment; no sound of your squeaking pipe or tabret awakes the silence of these walls; no runlets of wine flow in the beaders of the banquet hall. All is quiet and still. Thanks to Our Lady for’t!”

“Such quiet and such stillness, i’ faith! Why, man, you cannot walk along the solitary corridors of the castle, without trembling at your own starved shadow. Didst ever see a place swept by the plague—all its living folk carried to the grave-yard, leaving old Death to take care of deserted chamber and lonely hall? Look around the court-yard of Albarone, and ask your heart—if heart you have—whether a plague has not swept this place? The saints defend me! it chills my soul to look upon these lonesome walls!”

“And I—look ye, gossips—I, Griseldea, tire-woman of my Ladye Annabel, have never damosel or dame, for two score long years—I am two score and six years, come next Mass o’ Christ, not an hour more, i’ faith—I have never, for two score long years, felt so dead in heart as I do now! In my Ladye’s bower lie her garments of price; the tunic of blue and gold which she wore in her happy days; the white plume that once drooped over her fair brow, the snow-white bridal dress—all, all are there! But where is my Ladye Annabel? Grammercy, but these are doleful days!”

“Blood o’ th’ Turk! Tell me, good folk, are ye paid to howl in chorus? Hugo, didst ever hear such growling?”

“Faith, they do growl, somewhat like a herd of untamed bears! Yet, Balvardo, bethink thee—there’s reason for’t. W-h-e-w! When I think of the queer things that have chanced within these few days, I might wonder, I might growl; yes, Balvardo, I might growl, I might wonder!”

“Here, for three long days, since my lord of Florence left the castle, have we seen no sight of the Count Aldarin,” exclaimed the huntsman.—“Mayhap he has buried himself alive—mayhap he has gone up to heaven, or more likely he has gone to—’s life, what a stitch in my side!”

“Softly, softly, sir huntsman, softly! Wise folk speak not lightly of the Count Aldarin. The rope on yonder gibbet swings loosely in the summer wind—thy neck may be the first to stretch its fibres!”

“Blood o’ th’ Turk, yet it does seem queer when one comes to think of it! Not three days ago, it was nothing but ‘saddle me your horses, scour every road, bring back the traitor Guiseppo, and hew off his caitiff head! Now—blood o’ th’ Turk, it puzzles me!’”

“Now, sir Balvardo, the word is: ‘Pay all respect to Guiseppo; honor the youth as myself—he is dear to me in blood, dear to me in heart, honor Guiseppo, he rules the castle in my absence.’”

“Sancta Maria!” cried the ancient tire-woman. “Tell me, gossip, tell me, sir huntsman, how came this about?”

“Not two nights agone, there enters the castle gate, a wandering palmer, clad in rags. Not satisfied with asking alms at the hall door, he must wander along the corridors of the castle, and prowl around the door of the cell where the damsel Rosalind is imprisoned. My Count Aldarin’s suspicions are roused: he flings the beggar’s robes from the palmer’s face, and we all behold the—trim page Guiseppo!”

“Wonder of all wonders! Now, I’ll never be astonished again in all my life!”

“Not even if any one should chance to believe the story of thy age, which thou art wont to tell! Hugo, look at gossip tire-woman, how her eyes are dropping from their sockets!”

“There stood the page Guiseppo—there stood the Count Aldarin! Nice group—eh! Axes and gibbets were the mildest things in our thoughts, when my lord takes the page by the hand, smiles kindly, and leads him away. An hour passes: the supper is spread in the banquet hall: my Lord Aldarin appears, and with him comes Guiseppo, clad in garments of cost—”

“And then comes the word: ‘Pay Sir Guiseppo all respect—honor him as myself.’ Is’t not so good gossip?”

“By my huntsman’s word, it is even so! Now tell me, sir sentinels, waiting at the castle gate, while the Count Aldarin is buried in the depths of the earth, sir Hugo and Balvardo, sir steward and dame Griseldea, all of ye servitors of Albarone, is not this matter enough for a nine day’s wonder? By’r Lady, I never heard the like!”

“Blood o’ th’ Turk, ’tis wonderful!”

“W-h-e-w! ’Tis passing strange!”

“Hist—Hugo! What sound is that? ’Tis like the tramp of war steeds!”

“Hark! The peal of a trumpet! This is wondrous.”

And for a single moment the strangely contrasted group gathered at the castle gate, in the mild evening hour, stood motionless as statutes, with the light of the setting sun falling over each face and figure.

There was Hugo, with his vacant face and sinister eye, clad like his comrade, Balvardo of the beetle brow, in glittering armor of Milan steel, each standing breast to breast, as, with pikes half raised, they listened to the trumpet peal swelling from the distance. There was the bluff huntsman of the castle, his rugged visage affording a striking contrast to the sharp features of the ancient steward, and the thin, withered countenance of the tire-woman, standing near him, while all around were clustered the servitors of Albarone, their gay liveries flashing in the light of the setting sun.

“Hark, Balvardo! The trumpet peal swells louder. I hear the trampling of an hundred steeds. Up, up to the tower of the castle gate, and tell us what is to be seen!”

Balvardo hastily disappeared, and while the group clustered round the lofty pillar awaited the result of his observations with the utmost suspense, ascended to the tower by a staircase built in the massive wall.

“What dost see, comrade?” shouted Hugo; “The trumpet peal grows louder, and I hear the tramp of war steeds pattering along the road to the castle gate. What dost see, Balvardo?”

“I see a strange sight, i’faith! Horsemen issue from the shadow of the wood toward Florence—horsemen arrayed in strange robes, black as night. I count one, two, three,—by my life, there’s thirteen o’ them, all mounted on cream-colored steeds!”

“Are they men-at-arms? Bear they a pennon at their head?”

“Blood o’ th’ Turk, I see no men-at-arms! They are clad in long robes, that fall sweeping almost to the very ground. Their robes are black as the death-pall, yet are they faced with a goodly border of glittering gold. Now the wind sweeps the robe of the foremost horseman aside. By my sword, he is clad in the attire of a paynim dog! Loose, flowing garments, with a belt of curious embroidery, while a dark turban surmounts his swarthy form.”

“Ride they towards the castle?”

“They ride forward two abreast; the tall figure rides at their head. Tramp, tramp—God send they be not wizards in disguise! A new wonder, comrade; one of the party spurs his horse to the front—he is speeding toward the castle gate! Blood o’ th’ Turk, he holds a trumpet in his grasp.”

“A trumpet, Balvardo? This should be the herald of the companie.”

“He rides up the hill, he reins his steed on the very edge of the moat. Hark, how his trumpet peals!”

And while the shrill and piercing sound of the trumpet broke on the air, the group listening beside the castle gate were startled by the sound of a measured footstep.

With one start they turned in the direction of the sound, and beheld the person of the new comer.

He was a young cavalier, with a smooth face, unvisited by beard, yet stamped with the marks of premature and sudden experience, while his slender form, clad in a jewelled doublet, was half hidden by the folds of a sweeping robe of purple, that fell from his shoulders, varied by a border of snow-white ermine.

“It is him—the page Guiseppo,” murmured the huntsman. “Mark ye, how changed he looks! His arms folded, and his merry face clad in a frown. Well-a-day! The world is all bewitched, or I’m no sinful man!”

“The page Guiseppo,” whispered the shrill-voiced steward. “Know ye not his new title? ‘My Lord Guiseppo, Baron of Masserio’—nephew of the Count Aldarin. Masserio is the name of one of the smaller baronies annexed by my lord of Florence, to the domains of Albarone. ’Tis said ’twas confiscated to the state, because its master meddled with the strange Order of the Steel, whose fame has been in our ear for these four months past.”

“Sir sentinel, canst tell me what means this peal of trumpet, this clamor at the gates of Albarone?”

As Guiseppo advanced and spoke, every one in the group was impressed to the very heart with the change that had so lately passed over the appearance and manner of the page. A score of years could not have added more solemnity to his visage, or given a more deep-toned sternness to his voice.

In a moment the Lord Guiseppo—such is now his title—was possessed of the cause of the clamor at the castle-gate, and was about to speak, when the trumpet peal ceased, and the clear bold voice of the herald, broke upon the air.

“Peace to the Lord Julian of Albarone! My master salutes the gallant knight and craves entrance into the shelter of his goodly castle! Peace to the Lord Julian of Albarone!”

“Be thy master, the Paynim Mahound himself, or the Devil his father—” rang out the hoarse tones of Balvardo, from the tower above—“He is a few days behind old Death in his salutation. Lord Julian of Albarone sleeps in the Charnel-House.”

“Then Sir Warder of the castle-gate, by thy soldierly courtesy, I pray thee inform me—doth his brother, the Scholar Aldarin yet live?”

“The Count Aldarin reigns Lord of Albarone.”

“Then I pray thee, bear the salutations of my master to the Count Aldarin, and with his greeting bear this scroll!”

“S’ life—here’s a net for a man to tangle his feet with!” the group below heard the growling words break from Balvardo—“My Lord Guiseppo”—he exclaimed aloud, looking from the window of the tower—“What answer shall I make to this Wizard Herald of yon Paynim band!”

A sudden contortion passed over the features of Guiseppo, he raised his hand wildly to his brow, and trembled as he stood beside the castle-gate. The spasm-like expression that passed over his face, was scarce human in its meaning, and the spectators started back with a sudden fear. There are times, when the soul is shaken to its centre by the fierce war of contending emotions, when the heart struggles with the brain, while the reason totters, and the intellect reels on its throne. A contest wild as this; seemed warring between the heart and brain of Guiseppo, the new created Lord of Masserio.

“One moment, good Balvardo—Hugo, I am faint—some wine, I prithee!”

Hugo offered his arm to the tottering Guiseppo, and in a moment the Lord of Masserio, found himself sitting on a rough bench of stone, within the confines of the lower chamber of the Warder’s Tower, while Hugo stood motionless before him, holding the brimming goblet of wine.

“Thanks, good Hugo—retire a moment, and I will be my own man again—let me think,” he muttered in a half-whisper as the Sentinel retired—“Its like a dream—and yet the reality presses on my brain like a weight of lead. I feel no joy in my lordship. Three little days—Saints of Heaven—behold the change! Three days ago, a poor Page, journeyed with a band of gallant soldiers! He disappeared, no one save himself knew whither. He came to this castle in his Palmer’s rags and perilled his life to rescue his Ladye-love. He was discovered—he already beheld the object of omen, held above his head—he expected the axe—and Sancta Maria! A coronet fell glittering at his feet. His son—his son! Great God how dark the mystery! My brain whirls—the wine, ha, ha—the wine.”

“Sir Sentinel”—arose the voice of the Herald without—“Wilt thou bear this scroll to the Lord Aldarin?”

“And she is yet imprisoned! He my father! As God lives I’m bound to stand by him to the death! Robin’s story—is it, is it true? The dark hints of the men-at-arms, with their leader Sir Geoffrey—might not this trumpet peal serve to unravel their meaning? The wine gives me nerve—my brain whirls no more. And Adrian and Annabel—must I desert their cause? Methinks I feel my heart strings crack, at the very word! And he is my father; he loads me with favors, burdens me with kindness—” the half crazed Guiseppo looked around the confined chamber with a fixed and steady eye—“I will stand by my father Aldarin to the death”.

“Sir Warden, this delay is far from courteous—For the last time, wilt thou bear the scroll?”

“Let the men-at-arms be ranged, along the castle gate—“spoke the determined voice of Lord Guiseppo, as with a steady step and unfaltering manner he issued from the lower chamber of the Warden’s Tower—“Call the men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence, now loitering in the halls of the castle, call the vassals of Albarone, silently yet hastily hither! Away Hugo—and thou Sir Huntsman! Let it be done without delay. Balvardo—mark ye, when I give the word let the drawbridge be lowered and the portcullis raised. We shall see what manner of men are these strangers—the Lord Aldarin shall judge them by their scroll!”

CHAPTER THE NINTH. ALDARIN AND HIS FUTURE. “IBRAHIM BEN MALAKIM SALUTES HIS BROTHER ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR.”

The beams of the declining day, glanced gaily thro’ the arched windows of the Red-chamber, and the Count Aldarin paced with a hurried step across the marble floor, and his chest rose and fell, and his cheek flushed and paled, and now his voice was choked by rage, and again it was clear and deep-toned with hate.

“Baffled! and by whom? my own child. I have laid schemes—I have planned, I have plotted, and all for Annabel—my daughter. And she returns me—contempt and scorn. If, within the bowels of the earth, there is a place of torture, a boundless, illimitable and ever burning hell—if within the fire of the stars, there is written a Doom for the Damned, then to the very hell of hell, then to the very Doom of the Damned, have I sold myself, and all for thee, my daughter! What! a tear?—Shall I play the woman?—No—I will brace me up!—I will show the world the power of one who hates the whole accursed race. There was a time when I could weep, aye and talk of feeling and prate of the tenderness and humanity with any of them!—They gave me scorn, they heaped insult upon me!”

He looked around as tho’ he would compass the whole human race with his glance, and an expression of demoniac hate came over his features while he whispered between his clenched teeth.

“Have I paid the debt? Ha! ha! Let those who wronged me answer. Have I paid the debt? The man never lived who struck the meek Scholar and saw another sun. Not one! not one!—Nay there was one. He scorned me before the Princes of Christendom—it was at Jerusalem—I gave him scorn for scorn—with his mailed hand he struck me to the floor! I swore revenge—the steel was false, the dagger failed, but on his life and heart have I wreaked vengeance, such as man never wreaked before! The revenge of Aldarin must not be fed with the blood of his foe? No—by the fiend—no! But with the very life drops of his soul! My victim fights for the glory of Albarone. Little does he dream who now doth rule the ancient house.—Miserable fool, he toils and wars far in Palestine—he toils—he wars for me! Me! his ancient, his sworn and unrelenting foe! Ha! whence is that noise? Ha! ha! Surely it is not a groan from yon couch?”

Pausing for a moment, he eagerly listened, and again he spoke.

“Let me gather my thoughts. Let me nerve my soul for the trial of this night. The stake I hold in my hand is a fearful one—the hand that would grasp the very secrets of the grave, the weird mysteries of Old Death, should never tremble.”

He paced the floor yet more hurriedly, and was silent for a few moments.

“It is the very night!” he exclaimed, after a pause of intense thought. “The grand problem upon which I have bestowed my youth—my mind—my soul—my all—will soon be solved. This very night completes the thrice seven years. For thrice seven years has the beechen flame burned beneath the alembic, in my laboratory; in war, in difficulty, in danger, and in death, has the azure flame still burned on with undying lustre. Unbounded wealth is mine! Immortal life.

“In after-time, when long, long, centuries have passed away, men will speak of the glory, the mystery—and perchance the crime—that encircled the life of Aldarin the Scholar! And as the cheek of the listener grows pale, I—I—will be there, also a listener and to the story of my own fate! Aldarin will be there, but oh, how changed! Aldarin, no longer weak, trembling, bent with age—but Aldarin, young and glorious, with the signet of eternal youth and power stamped upon his unfading brow!

“Gold, gold, the talisman that rules the soul of man, gold that buys wisdom from the sage, Heaven from the priest, life from the leech, honor from the mighty, and virtue from woman, GOLD will be mine.”

Turning aside, Aldarin drew forth from a recess in the walls, a parchment scroll richly illuminated, and covered with characters in the Arabic tongue. He drew near the casement, and unclosed this scroll to the light of the declining day, gazing upon the dark characters while a singular agitation pervaded the lineaments of his face.

It was the Book of his Belief—in which he had long ago written his ideas of God and Man. Shall we look into these wierd pages, even for a moment, and learn the nature of the Theology which gave shape and purpose to the life of Aldarin? We will glance at a single page of

THE BIBLE OF ALDARIN.

I. Who shall describe the incomprehensible Power, which gives life and motion to the Universe?

II. An Almighty Intellect, dwelling in the solitudes of infinite space, and yet pervading all Nature, guiding by his silent and overshadowing will, the courses of the stars, the fate of empires, and the destinies of men, living for ever, the commencement of his being, dated by a past eternity, the duration of his existence, bounded by a future eternity, He is the SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE.

III. Men have blasphemed this Universal Soul, with their vain titles. They have mocked Him with vainer creeds. They have enshrouded this simple Idea with a multitude of cumbrous falsehoods. They have buried it in the Charnel house of festering superstitions. Yet the Idea has survived, and lived, despite all these systems of error. It can never die. It is written on the heart of the new-born child, and cannot be erased, until you destroy the body and kill the Soul of that child. Whether adored in the shape of an obscene reptile—as in ancient Egypt—or in the form of a marble image—as in Greece and Rome—the Soul of the World is still worshipped, as the fountain of all life and motion; his Thoughts the deeds of the Universe.

IV. The Soul, from time to time, and at long intervals, has enshrined his Being in flesh, and walked the earth in the form of living man, and appeared among men,—the Incarnate Universe.

V. As the sun gives forth light, and is not deprived of a single ray, so the Universal Soul, sends abroad, beams of his existence, which are at once, portions of his glory and eternity. These beams of the Soul, are clad in forms of flesh, they walk the earth, they share in the temptations and disquietudes of mankind. Or, they are Spirits, invisible to the gross senses of clay, and yet dwelling on the earth and sharing in the destinies of its people. Are they clad in humanity? Then their knowledge of their Eternal Source is dim, undefined, and only felt by broken gleams. Sometimes that Knowledge comes upon them in all its power; they feel they know, that they are of the Almighty Intellect, beams of his brightness and pulsations of his heart. When this Consciousness bursts upon them, they are men no longer, but Leaders of the human race, and are known among men, as Prophets, Apostles and Redeemers.

VI. Even in their worst state, when most beclouded by the appetites and misfortunes of flesh, these Souls, born of the Universal Soul, retain a consciousness, however dim, of their origin, a glimpse, vague as it may be, of their destiny, and a portion, of the might of their Creator and Father.

VII. All men are not of the Almighty Soul, nor does every bosom throb with a pulsation of the Universal Heart.

VIII. Look abroad over the multitudes of mankind. Survey the Camp, the Court, the Cloister. Traverse the world of humanity from the kennel to the palace. What do you behold?

IX. Yonder, by a river shore, an army marches, its ten thousand spears flashing in the sunlight. Without a Leader, whose Soul is the Soul of these ten thousand men, this army is powerless; it is but ten thousand isolated links of a broken Chain. That Leader is a Ray from the Soul of the Universe; a Ray beclouded by the gory mist of carnage, yet still a Beam of the Eternal Sun.

X. Go to the Palace. There is a King there, who sits upon a golden throne, and drinks in the idolatry of cringing Courtiers, and arrays his form, in a garment, whose very tinsel has been purchased with the life blood of at least, a thousand men. This King rules an empire, levies taxes, makes war and peace, holds life and death in the hollow of his hand. He is only a Mock King after all; for as you gaze more attentively upon the source and machinery of his power, you will behold, far back in the shadows of his throne, some Monk with a tonsured forehead, or some Scholar with a withered face, and in the Monk or the Scholar, you in truth, recognize the Real King. For the Monk, and the Scholar are beams of the Almighty Intellect, darkened by sophistries or ferocious with superstition yet still Pulsations of the Universal Heart.

XI. One third of the world bows at the foot of the Cross. Another third worships a Crescent. The last third gives its adoration to images and creeds, as various as the faces of men.

XII. Dive into your heart and seek the Cause of all this. Do you find it in the magnificent temples; the armies of hired priests, the volumes of Cumbrous rituals? This is the manifestation of the Cause, or the corruption of the Cause, but not the Cause itself. Seek deeper. You will find that this Cross is adored, because ten Centuries and more ago, a Carpenter’s Son, felt the full consciousness of his origin, even as he toiled in the workshop, beside his peasant father. The Soul of that Carpenter’s Son, born of the Almighty Intellect, lives even yet, although its purity may be darkened by the Corruptions of earth-born Souls, and its power, manacled by ten thousand arms and appetites of flesh and blood. And thus, the Crescent is a symbol of the faith of millions, because some centuries ago, an Arabian camel-driver, even amid the sand and stars of a trackless desert, felt that he was a part of Eternity. Track the other religions, to their sources, and you will find that Beams of the Universal Soul, have appeared in forms of flesh, and passed away, leaving no record but their system or their creed.

XIII. Wherefore is there evil in the World? Wherefore does Good always entwine itself with evil? Wherefore does the Simple religion of the Carpenter’s Son, which said, hundred of years ago, that all of truth was written in the words, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you, now hide and bury itself, under the feet of Popes, priests and monks, who say by their deeds, We do unto others as we would not have them do unto us?

XIV. It is a terrible question. Search your heart again. Question the Seers of immemorial time. Descend into the Charnel. Ask an answer from Death itself. Gather your soul within itself until the Spirits of the Other World speak to you.

XV. There is an answer to your question. Let us behold it. While the Universal Soul dwells Supreme, there lives another Power in the Universe. This Power is not eternal, and yet his existence appears like an Eternity when compared with the years of earth. He is not Omnipotent, and yet when compared with a mortal arm, HIS arm seems to be invested with Almighty Power. He lived before earth was born; he will live when earth and its creations are dead. He is at once the Foe and the Inferior of the Supreme Soul. He has been ever, at war with his Master he has defied his power, confounded his Almighty Good with Evil, and marred the beauty of his works. This inferior has been known by various names but a simple title, expresses at once, his name and his nature.

XVI. He is the Soul of Evil.

XVII. Behold a wonderous truth.

When the Universal Soul, first imparted a portion of his being to living forms, or, forms of flesh and blood, the Soul of Evil, marred his work, by creating other forms, unto whom he gave a part of his own malignant life, impulse and destiny.

XVIII. Do not hesitate. There is yet a more wonderous truth. These forms, in which the Soul of Evil, embodied a portion of his being, resembled the forms, in which the Universal Soul, diffused beams of his light and eternity.

XIX. Through countless ages, the beings, born of Almighty Intellect, warred with the beings, created by the Soul of evil.

XX. At last, the children of eternity, clothed in flesh and blood, mingled their lives and lives, with the offspring of the evil Soul,—doomed to annihilation,—who were also clothed in flesh and blood.

XXI. The earth, on which we live was peopled by the generations of this mingled race; a race composed of Good and Evil, of Eternity and Death.

XXII. In these words, given above, all the mysteries of life, are explained.

XXIII. Wonder no longer at the perpetual paradox, presented in all ages by the human race. It is true that Good and Evil, fight an eternal battle, in the heart of man. It is true, that the basest have some consciousness of their Divine Origin; and that the best, have some throbbings, to remind them of an infernal paternity. Could it be otherwise? Man is made up, of two elements; he is the Child of two distinct races. One is the race of Light and Eternity; the other of Dark and Death.

XXIV. There have been men, whose entire nature, has been formed from the race of the Evil Soul. They have been called, Monsters, by their fellow men, and their name, has passed into a Curse.

XXV. There has also been men, whose entire nature, has been formed from the race of the Universal Soul. They are called, Angels, Demi-gods, by their fellow men, and their name is a Blessing.

XXVI. Search into your own heart. Ponder—reflect—look deeper. Digest these few plain truths, examine their proportions, as you would measure the exactness of a pyramid.

XXVII. Do you not discover the source of all the creeds, which have divided mankind?

XXVIII. Do you not discover the Key to the great mystery of the Universe?

And beneath all this was written——

“The Spirit of Jehovah is upon me to preach good tidings to the poor, sight to the blind, peace to them that are bruised——and to all men the Acceptable year of the Lord.”

The last sentence, written not in Arabic but in Hebrew, and written by another hand then his own, filled Aldarin with inexplicable emotion.

“If these words spoken by the Nazarene are true, then is my whole life a lie,” he said, and retired into the shadows of the Red-Chamber.

When he came toward the declining light once more, his brow was strangely troubled.

“How strange has been the course of my life! Let me gaze backward over the dark path I have trodden. This night thrice seven long years ago—amid the gloom of the Syrian battle plain, a dark-eyed Arabian gave me in ransom for his life, the book of his race, which he dared not read. And there, in that lone hour, as midnight gathered over the corses of the dead, did he sware by the Eternal Flame of the Fire-worshipper, that in body or in soul, he would be with my heart, and by my side this very night. THE BOOK spoke in words of fire of the secret, and—and—by my soul I have heard no message from the Arab Prince for three long years. He can not, will not fail me now!”

The door of the Red-Chamber was flung suddenly open, and the Lord Guiseppo hastily advanced, with an expression of deep gloom stamped on his brow. He held a scroll of parchment in his extended hand.

“Ha! My Lord Guiseppo, son of mine. I greet thee! Hast thou any message for me?”

“A strange man clad in Paynim costume, attended by a train of twelve, attired strangely as himself, wait at the castle gate. He sends his greeting and this simple scroll.”

“A strange man clad in Paynim costume”—murmured Aldarin in a whispering tone—“A scroll! Give it me, Guiseppo—Ha! What words are these—Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim salutes his brother, Aldarin the Scholar!”

A warm flush like a sudden glow of sunshine passed over the face of Aldarin, his eye gleamed and brightened until it seemed burning its socket, and the Scholar stood for a moment agitated and motionless.

“Guiseppo!” he shouted in a voice of thunder as he turned towards the youthful Lord—“Away, away, to the castle gate and answer the giver of this scroll with the words—Aldarin greets his brother Ibrahim!”

“And then my Lord Aldarin”—

“Lead the stranger to my presence!”

And while Guiseppo turned to obey the behest of the Scholar, the Count Aldarin, strode with a hurried step along the floor of the Red Chamber, with his arms folded and his head drooped low upon his breast.

There was a long pause of absorbing thought.

“He comes—he comes, with the last scroll of the Book! He comes with the Charm, which in the hands of Aldarin shall wake the dead! When the last scroll is read, when the last charm is spoken, then, then, Aldarin lives forever! And Ibrahim—ha, ha, ’twere but fair that the blood of the Priest, who first awoke this Idea within my bosom, should mingle with the blood of the victims, slain at the shrine of the awful Thought.”

A dark and meaning smile passed over the lip of Aldarin, and again he communed with his own thoughts.

A footstep sounded through the ante-chamber; in a moment the stranger, tall and majestic, stood before the Scholar.