Chapter 12

THE TASK OF THE WEIRD SPIRIT IS DONE—THE CURTAIN OF FATE FALLS OVER THE TRAGEDY OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE.

Joyto Florence now, oh joy to the fair city in her streets and through her lordly halls, joy to the prince of the palace and the peasant of thecot, joy to the mountain and the dell, joy to the hill and the valley, joy to the silvery river, joy to the homes of men, joy to the shrines of God, joy, joy, forever joy!

The Duke, the people’s Duke is come to reign! Baptized by trial, chosen by the People, crowned by the Invisible, anointed by God, he comes to reign!

—So, after many pages of varied and peculiar interest writes the Chronicle of the Ancient MSS. in his extravagant way.

There are light voices filling the air, there are soft steps tripping through the lordly halls, there are costly draperies sweeping over marble floors, there are strains of music awaking the echoes of ancient domes, there are processions thronging the streets in all the pomp of crucifix and banner, gallant knights ride to and fro, shaking the glitter of their snowy plumes aloft, the poor creep from their dens of want, the mighty pour from their homes of pride, the sordid miser forgets his money bags, the merchant his wares of cost, the scholar his musty book, the bravo his knife, the children of misery their care, and all, aye all, come thronging to the high Cathedral of Florence, when the solemn priest will, ere an hour, amid the glad shouts of thousands, anoint Adrian Di Albarone, Lord Duke of Florence, and crown his fair bride, the Ladye Annabel, with the coronet for which Aldarin gave his soul.

It is morning, glad and joyous morning, the calm azure arches over the fair city, gorgeous with temple-dome and palace tower, while the gay people hasten to the grand Cathedral, anxious to behold the Duke and his fair bride.

THE POSTILLION AND THE BUXOM DAMSELS.

And there tripping merrily along were three peasant damsels, arrayed in their holiday attire, and with them a bow-legged youth attired as a postillion, strutted on his way with extended stride and lofty air, which seemed to say, that all this parade and show, was made for his sole benefit and especial amusement.

“Sancta Maria! How he trips it along!” thus spoke the tallest of the damsels “beshrew, but Sir Francisco is wondrous proud, since he was knighted by the Duke!”

“How! knighted?” cried the damsel of the merry black eye.

“What mean you?” cried the red-haired maiden, and the bow-legged postillion looked over his shoulder with a vacant stare.

“Was he not honored with the collar, the hempen collar?” cried the tall maiden. “Did not that rough soldier of the Count Di Albarone that was, the Duke of Florence that is now, did not Rough Robin knight Sir Francisco with his own hands? How dull you are!”

“Ugh!” exclaimed the postillion shrugging his shoulders. “Whatunpleasant things you do remember! And yet the Duke said something very flattering, when he directed the rope to be taken from my neck. He said, says he, he said, I tell you—that I—

“Was a little impertinent, insignificant, busy-body,” exclaimed Theresa, laughing. “But Francisco what mean you to do with the reward, you received from the Duke that was murdered, eh? Francisco?”

“Yes, yes, what are you going to do with all that gold?” cried Dollabella, and the three gathered around the youth with evident interest, expressed in each face in the glittering eyes and the parted lips.

“Why Theresa, Dollabella, and Loretta,” answered the postillion, looking slowly round, with an expression of the deepest solemnity, “I mean to—that is, I intend—by’r Ladye the Cathedral bell is ringing. Come along, girls!”

“Ha, ha, ha! ’Tis a fair day and a bright,” laughed a shrill voice at the elbow of Francisco, “Florence is full of joy and e’en I, I am glad.”

A tremor of fear ran round the group as they beheld the form of the speaker, the distorted face, the wide mouth, the large rolling eyes, and the deformed figure with the unsightly hump on the shoulders, giving a half-brutal appearance to the stranger, while from lip to lip, ran the whisper—

“The Doomsman, the Doomsman!”

“Aye, aye, the Doomsman! And why not pray? Dare not the Doomsman laugh? Ha, ha, ha! What a fine neck thou hast for the axe, good youth; or now that I think o’t it would stretch a rope passing well. ’Tis a fine day, good folk, and I’m hastening to the Cathedral, to behold the crowning of one of my children, that is Children of the Axe.”

“Thy children?” echoed Francisco, aghast with fear. “Can a shadow like thee, have children?”

“Children o’ th’ axe, boy. I’ faith if all the world had their own, I’d have thy neck—a merry jest, nothing more boy, ho, ho, ho! Do’st see these fingers.”

“Vulture’s talons rather!”

“These, these were round his royal throat, while the lead, the seething lead waited for his princely body, and the wheel of torture was arrayed for his lordly repose. Ha, ha, ha! I would see him crowned, by the fiend would I! But come boy, thou knowest somewhat of city gossip, tell me, does this Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’ Longsword, stabbed by his own son, a good boy, he, he, he, does he yet live?”

“Have not prayers been offered in all the Cathedrals for the miracle?”

“The miracle? Enlighten me, good youth!”

“Hast thou not heard, how the force of the blow was swayed aside, by a piece of the true wood o’ th’ cross, which the old soldier had worn over his heart for years? A miracle, old shadow, a miracle!”

“Nay, nay, call me not shadow, I’ll never darken thy way to the gallows. But tell me, fair sir, did not the dagger pierce the old man’s heart?”

“It grazed the heart, but did not pierce it. Any city gossip might tell thee this, old thunder cloud!”

“And so the old man lives?”

“He doth! Thou art wondrous sorry that he still breathes the air, I warrant me?”

“Nay, nay, good youth. I bear Sir Geoffrey no harm, but dost see—the wheel, the axe and the boiling lead, all were ready for the boy Guiseppo, and, and, but ’tis the will of heaven! I can bear disappointment, he, he, he, in all matters, save in one. Thy neck boy, ha, ha, ha, the Doomsman’s fingers itch for thy neck!”

And while the peasant-group, the three buxom damsels, and the light-brained postillion, shrunk back from the touch of the distorted being with disgust, and stood thrilled with the fear of his words of omen, the Doomsman glided away, mingling with the vast crowd who thronged the streets of the wide city.

Standing upon the throne of gold, attired in the purple robes of a prince, Adrian Di Albarone, glanced with a brightening eye, and a swelling heart, upon the gorgeous scene around him, and then his glance was fixed upon the fair and lovely maiden by his side, whose eyes of dreamy beauty were downward cast, while a soft flush deepened the hue of her cheek, as she seemed to shrink from the gaze of the vast multitude, extending over the pavement, and along the aisles of the cathedral.

Adrian cast his eyes upon the throng around the throne.

There stood bold Robin, the stout Yeoman, attired in a garish appareling, which he seemed to like not half so well as his plain suit of buff, defended by armor plates of steel; and there his locks of gray, falling on his knightly surcoat, emblazoned on the breast with the red cross of the crusaders, stood the brave Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’ Longsword, attended on either side by the gallant esquires Damian and Halbert, each with a grim smile on his scarred face, as he surveyed the pomp and show glittering along the cathedral aisles.

Standing at the back of his father, his eye downcast, and his thoughts, Guiseppo seemed musing on the fearful blow, which had well nigh burdened his soul with the nameless crime. He said nothing, nor spoke of the pomp around him, but with folded arms stood silent and apart.

Standing beside her queenly cousin, with a group of bower maidens clustering around, the damosel Rosalind glanced from side to side with a merry twinkle of her eye, and look of maidenly wonder, as the glare and the glitter, the pomp and the show of the scene broke on her vision, and came thundering on her ear.

Amid the throng of noble dames, towered the stately form of the Lady Di Albarone, with a proud smile on her lip, and a haughty glance in her eye, as she looked with all a mother’s pride upon her son’s advancement to his right of birth and honor.

And higher grew the sound of pipe and cymbal, mingling with the roll of drum, and the peal of trumpet, and deeply booming along the arches of the cathedral, came the voice of the swelling organ, seeming as though some spirit of light had trained the mountain thunder to the strains of harmony, now soft and gentle, now awful, now sublime, and ever filling the soul with high and glowing thoughts.

And now the bright sunbeams came flaunting through the arched windows of the cathedral, and every eye was fixed upon the throne, and every voice was hushed in expectation, as the moment of the approaching ceremony drew nigh.

A murmur ran along the aisles of the cathedral, and it deepened into a cry—

“He comes, the holy abbot of St. Peter’s of Florence!”

And every sound was hushed, as the venerable man of heaven raised the golden coronet, set with rarest jewels, and the sceptre of ivory from the altar of the cathedral, and ascending the steps of the throne he was received by Adrian Di Albarone with lowered head, and bended knee.

“Sound heralds, sound!”

And then the heralds, standing one on either side of the throne, gave a blast loud and long to the air, and proclaiming to the lineage, the title, and the birth of Lord Adrian Count Di Albarone, they flung each man, his glove upon the marble floor, challenging all the world to say aught against the right of descent claimed by the duke elect. There came no answer to the challenge.

“Lord Adrian Count Di Albarone,” thus spoke the abbot; “in the name of God, in the name of Christ and St. Peter, and by the blessing of the Holy Vicar of Christ upon earth, I proclaim thee Sovereign Lord of Florence, the city and the field, the mountain and the stream! I bestow upon thee the golden coronet—wear it with glory and honor. I place this sceptre of ivory in thy grasp—wield it with justice and truth. Arise Adrian,Lord Duke of Florence!”

As thus he spoke, with his mind glowing with the memory of the day when he had mingled in the battle fray, side by side, with the sire of the gallant youth who knelt at his feet, the tones of the abbot’s voice rose high and clear, and with eyes upraised to heaven, and outspread hands, he seemed to implore a benizen upon the bridal pair.

One shout, long and deep, ascended from the multitude. Adrian arose upon his feet, and lifted the gorgeous coronet from his brow. He took the fair Ladye Annabel by the hand, and as the blushes grew deeper on her cheek, he impressed upon her brow a kiss that told at once of the love of the youth for his mistress, and the admiration of the knight for his fair ladye.

He extended his hand, and in an instant the coronet rested upon the brow of the lovely bride.

The vast cathedral roof echoed with the thunder shout of the myriad voices, the strains of the swelling music filled the air, at each pause of the deafening cries of joy; the warriors flung their swords in the air, the fair dames and damosels waved their snow-white hands on high, and one universal gush of joy hailed the fair Ladye Annabel Duchess of Florence!

“My own fair bride,” Adrian whispered, “the night has passed, and our morning cometh.”

While her heart yet throbbed with indefinable emotion, Adrian led his gentle bride to the ducal chair, and side by side, they awaited the homage of the noble throng of lords and ladies, knights and damosels.

Many a noble lord, and many a haughty dame, advancing to the throne, bowed low at the feet of the Duke Adrian, and kissed the fair hand of the Duchess Annabel.

At last a man of lofty stature, and commanding port, with locks of gray hair falling back from a stern, determined face, paled by disease, and wan with thought, and ascending the steps of the throne, sank on one knee before the duke.

“Rise, brave knight,” exclaimed Adrian; “rise brave Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’ Longsword; rise lord keeper of our castle Di Albarone. Thy youth has been wasted fighting for the cause of the late venerated lord; thy age shall be rendered calm and peaceful within the walls of the castle, with whose brave soldiers thou hast so often gone forth to the ranks of battle.”

And placing the baton of command within the hand of the brave knight, he raised him from his kneeling position. Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword replied not to the Duke with words of flattery.—One glance of the eye, and one grasp of the hand, was all the answer that greeted the Duke Adrian.

Then came Robin the Rough, ascending the throne with a half-solemn air, as though he were afraid of soiling the steps of gold. With a true soldier’s salute he dropped on one knee, awaiting the command of the Duke to rise.

“Arise, bold Robin,” said Adrian, unsheathing the sword that hung at his side—“Arise—no longer Robin the stout yeoman, but Sir Roberto Di Capello, Lord of the Lands of Capello!”

No sooner did bold Robin feel the sword of the Duke slightly pressed upon his shoulder conferring knighthood, than he sprang upon his feet, and looked around with surprise and wonder expressed in his distended eyes and parted lips.

“Hast any boon to ask, Sir Roberto?” exclaimed the Duke.

“Why, an’ it please thee, my Lord Duke,” answered Robin, recovering from his surprise—“Why an’ it please thee, I have a boon to ask. I had much rather follow thee to battle in my old attire, in my coat of buff and my armor of steel. I like not this dainty trim.”

With a smile the Duke granted his characteristic request, and as thebold soldier retired, Adrian waved his hand to one who stood in the throng around the throne. From the ancient chronicle we gather these words concerning

“THE ROMANCER.”

A man attired in a tunic of dark velvet reaching to his knee, and with long locks of dark brown hair falling beneath the velvet cap of the scholar, now came forward and ascended the throne. In stature he was of the middle height, slim and well formed, with a face marked by irregular features, full cheeks, a mouth with large lips, while his hazel eyes, looking from beneath dark eyebrows, warmed with the inward soul.

“Most famed Romancer”—thus spoke the Duke to the person who knelt before him. “Most famed Romancer of the North, wear this signet for my sake. Men shall long keep in memory the wondrous Histories which thy pen, full of fancy, hath pictured. Add now to the number the Historie of the House Di Albarone. Take this ring as an earnest of future bounty. Thou shalt away with me to the Holy Land, thou shall chronicle the wars of the Christian and the Paynim.Ericci Il Normaniarise!”

Thus spoke the flattery of the Duke to the humble Romancer, thus he bade me indite my poor Historie, which, should it ever outlive this century, will serve at least to give some small glimpses of the crimes, the glory and the fame of the House Di Albarone.

And now, with his beaming eye no longer glowing with gaiety, but dark and thoughtful, came the Page Guiseppo; and side by side with the damsel Rosalind he knelt and did homage to his Lord. But why tell of Guiseppo and Rosalind—Is not the story of their fortunes found in the Historie of the Page and the Damsel?

The Duke turned to the vast multitude. He raised his sword on high.

“Witness, ye gallant knights, witness, ye fair dames, I now swear upon the hilt of my sword, that the morrow’s sun shall behold me and my followers bound for Palestine, there to fight for the Holy Sepulchre. And so help me God and St. George!”

And there stood Adrian, with his ducal robe of purple thrown back from his shoulders, his right hand pressing his sword hilt to his lip, his left arm raised to the heavens, while his eyes flashed with all the enthusiasm of his soul.

The cry ran like a lightning flash through the temple, every voice was for Palestine, every tongue shouted—“on—on to the rescue—God for the Holy Sepulchre!”

Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword raised his sword on high, the Ladye Annabel, fired by the holy feeling of the moment, lifted the cross of ebony depending from her neck to her lips, as a thunder-shout arose from the multitude, and while all was exultation and joy, bold Robin the stout yeoman flung the broad banner of the Duke to the air, and the bright sunbeams shining upon the azure folds gilded with dazzling light the blazonry of gold, and every eye beheld the armorial bearings of the Lord of Florence, with the words in letters of gold—

“GRASP BOLDLY, AND BRAVELY STRIKE!”

“It is past, the dark and fearful night,” again repeated Adrian, as he gazed over this scene of wild enthusiasm; “Lo! the morning cometh!”

As he spoke the cathedral was suddenly darkened, a thick mist filled the Church, and one man could scarce distinguish the form of another by his side.

A wild, hollow laugh sounded to the very roof of the cathedral, it rung upon the senses of the vast multitude, and was echoed from every aisle of the solemn temple.

“What means the darkness?” Adrian shouted, drawing his sword; “Hist! I hear a footstep. It passes over the throne. It passes between me and thee Annabel; yet I see no form, I hear no voice.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” The wild laugh again rose upon the dark and twilight air.

“He stands by my side!” shrieked the Ladye Annabel; “It ishe—it is my father!”

And she trembled with affright, and leaned shrinking upon the arm of the Duke, while her fair blue eyes dilated with a strange expression, and her glance was fixed in one wild dread look upon the darkened air.

“It is done!” exclaimed a voice breaking from the vacancy of the air; “It is done! Fair daughter of mine, thou art Duchess of Florence—the coronet is on thy brow—all is fulfilled!”

“Holy Mary, save me!” shrieked Annabel in a low whispered tone; “an icy hand is pressed upon my brow. It is like the hand of death.”

And as there she stood upon the throne of gold, her form upraised to its full height, her eye fixed on vacancy, and her fair white hands trembling with an unreal fear, a feeling of terrible and overwhelmingAWEover-shadowed each heart, and paled each face, while the solemn tones of the spirit voice broke on the ear of the lovely bride.

“In life thou wert my ambition, and in the solemn walks of death, amid the fear that may not be named, and the gloom that may be dared, thy father, maiden, is still the evil angel of all who wish thee harm, or do thee wrong.”

A low moaning sound broke on the air, and again the words of the spirit voice came to the Lady Annabel—

“The last behest of thy father—the parchment scroll, and the phial of silver confided to thy hands—hast thou obeyed the dying words of Aldarin?”

The cheek of the Lady Annabel became pale as death, and her eye grew bright with supernatural lustre. The hurried words of the scroll, written in the blood of the doomed man, the fearful request, the dark hints at the re-vivification of his mortal body, by the action of the water of life, all to be accomplished by the devotion of his daughter——flashed over her brain at the moment, when the gloom of the presence of the dead, darkened the joy of the living, and the Ladye turned to Adrian, and murmured with a whisper of hollow emphasis—

“The corse, Adrian, the corse of my father—where doth it rest?”

“It hath no place of repose on earth,” was the solemn answer. “Given to the invisible air, the mortal frame finds nor home, nor resting place in sacred chapel, or in wild wood glade; but mingled with the unseen winds, floating in the atmosphere of heaven; on, and on forever wanders the earthly dust of the Scholar, denied repose on earth, refused judgment by heaven, condemned to the eternal solitudes of the disembodied spirit; on, and on it wanders seeking companionship with the mighty soul of Aldarin!”

And a low and solemn voice, speaking from the invisible air, murmured the words—“It is finished,

IT IS FINISHED!”

FOOTNOTES:[1]There have been one or two persons, who have made themselves merry with this passage. These persons, however, belong to that large class of literary pretenders who are always in the market, as the phrase goes, willing to edit anything, publish anything, take one side to day, another to morrow, for a little notoriety and a little bread. Their criticisms, do not demand an answer. You can have their good opinion for a dollar, and be adored by the whole tribe, for the gift of a dinner.But, a word is due to the candid reader, in regard to the Doomsman’s description of Capital Punishment in the olden time.The author is not responsible for a single line, word, or comma.He has left a wretch, embrated, nay, demonized by spectacles of carnage, to describe the slow agonies of a horrible death, in his own way.In the same manner, in another work, the author has introduced the Moloch of modern law,—the Hangman,—who but the cowardly instrument of a cowardly vengeance, puts a rope about his defenceless victim’s neck, and in a dark jail yard, chokes him slowly to death, while Ministers of Religion stand by, and approve the murder, with copious texts and learned references.The author is no more responsible for the ravings of the Hangman, than he is for the ravings of the hireling critic.[2]The word which we have written “Postillion,” in the ancient MSS. indicates a Courier, a Messenger; “one who carries letters from place to place.” This personage, whom we here designated, “Francisco the Courier,” is not unfrequently styled “Cisco the vagabond,” in the original manuscripts.[3]With his own peculiar abruptness, (to which the reader is by this time accustomed) the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS. changes the scene to the Valley of the Bowl, noticed in Chap. 3. Book. 3.[4]The story changes to Albarone again.[5]It will be seen that the Chronicler of the ancient MSS. goes on to picture the events of the previous night, in the succeeding chapter.[6]It is observable that the chronicler of the ancient MSS. applies the word Alembic to an open vessel resembling a crucible in shape.[7]Ibrahim Ben-Malakim (Arabic) “the Son of the Kings.”[8]This song is taken from an old Monkish Chaunt, and makes no pretensions to poetic beauty.[9]The Chronicler of the Ancient MSS uses the phrase as a general and comprehensive term, to designate the ‘man of the feudal times.’

FOOTNOTES:

[1]There have been one or two persons, who have made themselves merry with this passage. These persons, however, belong to that large class of literary pretenders who are always in the market, as the phrase goes, willing to edit anything, publish anything, take one side to day, another to morrow, for a little notoriety and a little bread. Their criticisms, do not demand an answer. You can have their good opinion for a dollar, and be adored by the whole tribe, for the gift of a dinner.But, a word is due to the candid reader, in regard to the Doomsman’s description of Capital Punishment in the olden time.The author is not responsible for a single line, word, or comma.He has left a wretch, embrated, nay, demonized by spectacles of carnage, to describe the slow agonies of a horrible death, in his own way.In the same manner, in another work, the author has introduced the Moloch of modern law,—the Hangman,—who but the cowardly instrument of a cowardly vengeance, puts a rope about his defenceless victim’s neck, and in a dark jail yard, chokes him slowly to death, while Ministers of Religion stand by, and approve the murder, with copious texts and learned references.The author is no more responsible for the ravings of the Hangman, than he is for the ravings of the hireling critic.

But, a word is due to the candid reader, in regard to the Doomsman’s description of Capital Punishment in the olden time.The author is not responsible for a single line, word, or comma.He has left a wretch, embrated, nay, demonized by spectacles of carnage, to describe the slow agonies of a horrible death, in his own way.

In the same manner, in another work, the author has introduced the Moloch of modern law,—the Hangman,—who but the cowardly instrument of a cowardly vengeance, puts a rope about his defenceless victim’s neck, and in a dark jail yard, chokes him slowly to death, while Ministers of Religion stand by, and approve the murder, with copious texts and learned references.

The author is no more responsible for the ravings of the Hangman, than he is for the ravings of the hireling critic.

[2]The word which we have written “Postillion,” in the ancient MSS. indicates a Courier, a Messenger; “one who carries letters from place to place.” This personage, whom we here designated, “Francisco the Courier,” is not unfrequently styled “Cisco the vagabond,” in the original manuscripts.

[3]With his own peculiar abruptness, (to which the reader is by this time accustomed) the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS. changes the scene to the Valley of the Bowl, noticed in Chap. 3. Book. 3.

[4]The story changes to Albarone again.

[5]It will be seen that the Chronicler of the ancient MSS. goes on to picture the events of the previous night, in the succeeding chapter.

[6]It is observable that the chronicler of the ancient MSS. applies the word Alembic to an open vessel resembling a crucible in shape.

[7]Ibrahim Ben-Malakim (Arabic) “the Son of the Kings.”

[8]This song is taken from an old Monkish Chaunt, and makes no pretensions to poetic beauty.

[9]The Chronicler of the Ancient MSS uses the phrase as a general and comprehensive term, to designate the ‘man of the feudal times.’

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