At the foot of the hill there lay a piece of level earth, some hundred paces square, sloping toward the east into a green meadow, backed by a wood; on the west it was hedged in by the forest trees, on the north arose the road leading to the castle, while towards the south the highway to Florence wound upwards along the brow of a precipitous hill.
Arrived at this level space—the theatre of the last and most fearful scene in his life—Aldarin beheld the stout yeoman ranging the men-at-arms along the foot of the hill, shoulder to shoulder, presenting one firm compact front, their upraised swords glittering over their sable plumes, their armor of steel shining in the morning sun. At his very side, in the centre of the level space, the wild horses of the desert were rearing and plunging in the hold of their grooms, as their shrill and piercing neigh broke on the air.
Aldarin cast his gaze above.
There crowding along the rocks, that confined the moat, form after form face after face, thronged the vassals of Albarone, gazing with silence and awe, upon the strange scenes passing in the valley below. For the moment every voice was stilled, every cry was silenced; with hushed breath and fixed brows, the men of Albarone, awaited the last scene of this tragedy.
And as Aldarin gazed around, he beheld two soldiers advance, holding thongs in their hands twisted out of the hide of the wild bull, while the tawny Moors, at a sign from Robin the Rough, placed their steeds haunch to haunch, the heads of two of the barbs looking towards the east, while the others were turned towards the west.
Robin the Rough advanced.
He gazed for a moment around the scene, and then approaching the side of Aldarin, spoke in a calm and even tone, as though the dignity of his solemn office, the avenger of the dead, imbued and elevated his soul.
“Thou hast invoked the blow, thou hast defied the steel, blasphemed our religion, and mocked our God.”
“Traitor and Fratricide—turn thee and behold the vengeance of that God.”
“Behold the manner of thy death—Murderer, look at these barbs of the desert; see how they paw the earth, how their quivering nostrils snuff the air—mark those forms of strength, those sinews of iron!”