Slowly and silently the soldiers disrobed the Scholar, and at last he stood disclosed in the light, with the folds of his under tunic floating around his slender form.
“Lead him to his doom?” shouted Robin the Rough.
“Ye shall not lead the old man to this fearful death!” arose the shriek of the Figure who had received the parchment from the hands of the Scholar—“I forbid this work of doom!”
The robe fell from the form of the stranger, and Adrian Di Albarone confronted the stout yeoman, his hands upraised, and his blue eye gleaming with a wild light, as he shrieked forth the words, “I forbid this work of doom!”
“Adrian Di Albarone,” exclaimed the deep-toned voice of Robin the Rough, as he seemed inspired with an awful feeling of the duty which he owed the dead; “to-morrow, these gallant men, the vassals clustering round yon heights, and thy poor servitor, who stands before thee, will joy to call thee—Lord!—This day is sacred to another master, to another Lord—this day is sacred to the God of vengeance. This day we own no earthly rule, we stand apart from all human things; we have sworn not to eat, nor drink, nor sleep until we have fulfilled the work of doom!”
“Thou will not scorn my prayer for mercy;—Adrian Di Albarone asks the old man’s life of thee! He is stained with my father’s blood, but I would not have him die this fearful death—spare the old man’s life!”
“I am the avenger of Lord Julian of Albarone! Ask the God above to spare the fratricide—for I cannot, cannot stay HIS judgment!”
Adrian turned away, for the stern faces of the men-at-arms told him that his pleadings were all in vain. And as he glided from the place of death, the robes were thrust aside from the face of the other figure, and every eye beheld the visage of Albertine the monk.
“Old man,” exclaimed the voice of Albertine, from the shrouded folds of his robe, “hast thou no prayer to offer, no words of penitence to speak ere thou art led to thy doom?”
“I am ready for my death;” exclaimed Aldarin, extending his arms—