“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.