While the dame spoke, the figure of a monk darkened the opened doorway, advancing to Leone he threw back his cowl, and discovered the dark brow, the wan face, the flashing eyes of Albertine, the monk.
“Lord Adrian,” whispered the Monk, “at the hour of sunset, when the dark storm arose, howling its requiem over the remains of the Fratricide, thou didst hasten from the castle of Albarone, bound for this lonely valley. Thou hadst not gone an hour’s journey from the castle walls, when I tracked thy footsteps, bearing news of fearful import. Thy haunt hath been betrayed to the tyrant, by a traitor from the lonely valley. Even now, the Duke spurs his steed toward the valley of the mountain lake, attended by a band of minions; even now the voices of his bravoes startle the air, shrieking for thy blood!”
“And the Invisible?” whispered Adrian—“where is their dagger of vengeance, while the tyrant rides abroad on his errands of wrong?”
“Listen, Lord Adrian! This very night, while the Duke is absent from the walls of Florence, will Lord and Monk, Prince and Peasant, joined in the solemn oath of the holy steel, arise in the might of men who have sworn at the very Altar of God to be free, and ere the morrow’s sun, Florence the Fair and Beautiful, will own another Sovereign! The Invisible work in secret, as doth the earthquake—man alone beholds the bursting of the storm!”
“Hark! I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs, mingled with the clatter of arms!”
“God of Heaven! The Duke approaches!” shouted the Monk—“I must be gone—all thought of escape for thee and thy bride is vain! Adrian, Adrian, bear a firm heart through the perils of this night, and in the morrow’s dawn will blaze the star of thy Mighty Fortune! Hath the Duke any issue, or is he the last of his line?”
“He is the last of his race,” answered Adrian, “why dost thou ask?”
“Thou wilt learn anon!” exclaimed the Monk.
He turned and sought the door, but as if struck by a sudden thought, he again approached Adrian, and whispered in tones that seemed to come from his very soul—“Fare-thee-well, Adrian, fare-thee-well! I have loved thee much, very much. There was a time when my heart was as young as thine, my soul as pure. But now—Ha! now I would have my revenge, although the chasm of hell yawned beneath me—nay, although between me and the object of my hate yawned the gulf of perdition, I would leap the abyss and drag him down, down to the eternal flames that now hunger for his accursed soul—Fare-thee-well, Adrian—I’ll never see thee more!”
The Monk was gone. The fearful look that fired his countenance, and the awful tones in which he spoke, haunted Adrian Di Albarone until his dying hour.