He turned and sought his place of concealment with a heavy heart; but ere he turned, he cast one deep, one agonizing look upon the lovely maiden.
“She is happy!—my wrongs shall not disturb her innocent soul—Farewell—my own loved—Annabel—farewell.”
A kiss that told of heart-felt affection he impressed upon her ruby lips, and as he took a last fond, ardent gaze, a burning tear fell upon the unstained cheek of the Ladye Annabel.
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.