“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.