“Then I pray thee, bear the salutations of my master to the Count Aldarin, and with his greeting bear this scroll!”
“S’ life—here’s a net for a man to tangle his feet with!” the group below heard the growling words break from Balvardo—“My Lord Guiseppo”—he exclaimed aloud, looking from the window of the tower—“What answer shall I make to this Wizard Herald of yon Paynim band!”
A sudden contortion passed over the features of Guiseppo, he raised his hand wildly to his brow, and trembled as he stood beside the castle-gate. The spasm-like expression that passed over his face, was scarce human in its meaning, and the spectators started back with a sudden fear. There are times, when the soul is shaken to its centre by the fierce war of contending emotions, when the heart struggles with the brain, while the reason totters, and the intellect reels on its throne. A contest wild as this; seemed warring between the heart and brain of Guiseppo, the new created Lord of Masserio.
“One moment, good Balvardo—Hugo, I am faint—some wine, I prithee!”
Hugo offered his arm to the tottering Guiseppo, and in a moment the Lord of Masserio, found himself sitting on a rough bench of stone, within the confines of the lower chamber of the Warder’s Tower, while Hugo stood motionless before him, holding the brimming goblet of wine.
“Thanks, good Hugo—retire a moment, and I will be my own man again—let me think,” he muttered in a half-whisper as the Sentinel retired—“Its like a dream—and yet the reality presses on my brain like a weight of lead. I feel no joy in my lordship. Three little days—Saints of Heaven—behold the change! Three days ago, a poor Page, journeyed with a band of gallant soldiers! He disappeared, no one save himself knew whither. He came to this castle in his Palmer’s rags and perilled his life to rescue his Ladye-love. He was discovered—he already beheld the object of omen, held above his head—he expected the axe—and Sancta Maria! A coronet fell glittering at his feet. His son—his son! Great God how dark the mystery! My brain whirls—the wine, ha, ha—the wine.”
“Sir Sentinel”—arose the voice of the Herald without—“Wilt thou bear this scroll to the Lord Aldarin?”
“And she is yet imprisoned! He my father! As God lives I’m bound to stand by him to the death! Robin’s story—is it, is it true? The dark hints of the men-at-arms, with their leader Sir Geoffrey—might not this trumpet peal serve to unravel their meaning? The wine gives me nerve—my brain whirls no more. And Adrian and Annabel—must I desert their cause? Methinks I feel my heart strings crack, at the very word! And he is my father; he loads me with favors, burdens me with kindness—” the half crazed Guiseppo looked around the confined chamber with a fixed and steady eye—“I will stand by my father Aldarin to the death”.
“Sir Warden, this delay is far from courteous—For the last time, wilt thou bear the scroll?”
“Let the men-at-arms be ranged, along the castle gate—“spoke the determined voice of Lord Guiseppo, as with a steady step and unfaltering manner he issued from the lower chamber of the Warden’s Tower—“Call the men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence, now loitering in the halls of the castle, call the vassals of Albarone, silently yet hastily hither! Away Hugo—and thou Sir Huntsman! Let it be done without delay. Balvardo—mark ye, when I give the word let the drawbridge be lowered and the portcullis raised. We shall see what manner of men are these strangers—the Lord Aldarin shall judge them by their scroll!”