The warm sunlight which filled the place, fell with a golden glow over the outlines of his lofty brow, indented with wrinkles, the long gray hair parted on either side, the eyebrows, snow-white, overarching the clear, bold eyes, that sent forth their glance with all the fire and intensity of youth, rendered more vivid and flame-like by the contrast of sunken eyelid and hollow cheek.
And by the bedside of the warrior, bending like an angel of good, as she ministered to his slightest wants, the form of a fair and lovely maiden was disclosed in the noon-day light, while her flaxen curls fell lightly, and with a waving motion, over the rich bloom of her cheek, glowing with the warmth of fifteen summers, and her full, large eyes of liquid blue, gleamed with the expression of a soul, whose fruits were pure and happy thoughts, the buds and blossoms of innocence and youth.
“Annabel,”—said the warrior, in a voice faint with disease—“Methinks I feel the strength of youth again returning; the sleeping potion of my good brother, Aldarin, has done me wondrous service. Assist me to the casement, child of mine heart, that I may gaze once more upon the broad lands and green woods of my own domain of Albarone.”——
As he spoke, the Count rose on his feet, with a tottering movement, and had fallen to the floor, but for the fair arm of the maiden wound around his waist, while his muscular hand rested upon her shoulder.
“Lean upon my arm, my uncle,—tread with a careful footstep. In a moment we will reach the casement.”
They stood within the recess of the emblazoned window, the warrior and the maiden, while around them floated and shimmered the golden sunshine, falling over the tesselated stone of the pavement, throwing a glaring light around the hangings of the bed, and streaming in flashes of brightness among the distant corners and nooks of the Red Chamber.
’Tis a fair land, niece of mine,—a fair and lovely land.—”
“A land of dreams, a land of magnificent visions, overshadowed by yon blue mountains of romance. Look, my uncle, how the noon-day sun is showering his light over the deep woods that encircle the rock of Albarone—yonder, beyond the verdure of the trees, winds the silvery Arno; yonder are hills and rugged steeps, and far away tower the blue heights of the Apennines!”
“And here, niece of mine, in my youthful prime I stood, when my aged father’s hand had dubbed me—knight. ’Twas such a quiet noon-day hour, on a calm and dream-like day as this, that, from the recess of this window, I gazed upon yon gorgeous land. How the blood swelled in my youthful veins; how dreams of ambition fired my boyish fancy, as the words broke from my lips,—‘Here they ruled, my fathers, in days by-gone, with the iron sword of the Goth; here they reigned as sovereign princes—as Dukes of Florence.’”
“Since that noon-day hour thy sword has flashed in the van of a thousand battles!”