Annabel heard no more.
“Coward and tyrant,” shouted Lord Adrian, as he caught the sinking maiden in his arms, “away with thee from this humble tenement. Defile not my bride with the pollution of thy touch—By the honor of my race! I would give the brightest jewel in the coronet of Albarone, for one good blow at the carcass of this craven hound!”
“Ho! art thou here my gay springald?—Thy bride, indeed?—Guards advance, seize the miscreant!—I will teach him to raise his unholy hand against his liege Lord!—away with him to the lowest dungeon of yon convent. On the morrow he shall be carried to Florence, there to answer for his treason!”
Unarmed and weaponless Adrian beheld himself at the mercy of the tyrant. The soldiers advanced,—in vain was his defence—in an instant he found himself in the hands of his foes, and as the minions bound his hands behind his back, he heard the beetle-browed Balvardo—for he was among the throng—whisper in the ear of the Duke—
“At what hour my Lord?”
“‘Slife canst not do it without my bidding?—When all in the convent is still—at midnight let it be done!—See to’t!”
“Aye, aye, my Lord, at midnight it shall be done!”
“And the Bridal,” cried the Duke, turning to the Ladye Annabel, as she rested in the arms of the Countess. “The hour after midnight shall witness the joyous scene—the marriage of the Duke and his betrothed!”
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE DEATH BOWL.
THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE RAVISHER STARTLE THE SILENCE OF THE MAIDEN’S CELL, WHILE ADRIAN PREPARES FOR HIS DOOM IN THE VAULTS BELOW.
It was in a lone chamber, where the dark walls, unrelieved by tapestry or wainscotting, were rendered yet more sad and gloomy by the fitful flashes of a taper, placed upon a small table of blackened oak.