“Guiseppo, Aldarin never deals in the jester’s wares. No—no my son, I do not jest. Listen Guiseppo, and hear the solemn determination of my soul. The events of these few brief days; the fearful death of my brother, the knowledge that THE SON was the MURDERER; the flight of my—my daughter; all have conspired to confirm that determination. I have resolved to retire and retire forever from the world. Not within the gloom of the monastery, not within the shadow of the cloister, does Aldarin seek refuge from the sorrows of the world. No—no.
“Within the shadows of the most secret chamber of the Castle, (dead to the world, unseen by living man, save thee Guiseppo, and yet companioned by those Holy Men who this very night, arrived at Albarone, from the far eastern lands,) in penitence and in prayer will Aldarin seek to win favor from heaven for this—this—wretch, this father-murderer. Guiseppo—I charge thee—let men believe me dead, and when thy right to the Lordship of Albarone is questioned, speak boldly of the favor of his Grace of Florence. He will defend the castle from wrong and shelter thee from outrage.”
“My Lord—my father, this is a strange determination! I beseech thee do not burden me with the rule of the Castle.”
“It must be so Guiseppo! From this night henceforth, Aldarin is dead to the world. Whene’er thou wouldst say aught with me, a sealed parchment, placed within a secret drawer arranged in the side of the beaufet, will reach my hands.—And mark ye—let not a single day pass over thy head, without looking into the secret drawer of the beaufet.”
“This is most wonderful! I ever thought thee a bold, ambitious man, and now I behold Aldarin whom all men name with fear, retire from the world, without a sigh.”
“One word more, Guiseppo. When thou hast stricken the blow—when the Destroyer of thy mother’s honor, lies low in death, then, then, hasten to the Round Room—thou hast heard of the chamber?—and within the solitudes of its silent walls, read this pacquet—it contains the fearful story of thy mother’s wrongs.”
“Forgive me, forgive me, my father—” shrieked Guiseppo, as if struck by some sudden thought—“Swayed by some alternate affection for thee as—my father—and regard for Adrian as—my friend, I have locked within the silence of my bosom an important secret—Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword has returned from Palestine.”
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the very feet of Aldarin, he could not have started more suddenly backward, or thrown his arms aloft with a wilder gesture.
“Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, returned from Palestine!” he shouted—“where is he now? How far from the Castle? How many soldiers ride in his train? Was the murderer Adrian with him?”
“Father—it was his band I left, when disguised as a Palmer, I hastened toward the Castle. He lurks within the recesses of the mountains, some score of miles away—three hundred men ride in his train—Adrian, whom I believed guiltless, is with him.”