He paused suddenly, and finished the sentence by pointing downward with the forefinger of the right hand, with a sort of diving motion.
“Ah! I had forgotten that, good Hugo! Thou wilt attend me, vassals; and ye, sirs, shall also accompany me to this midnight ceremony.”
While he thus spoke, the monk threw open a door at the end of the apartment opposite the sable curtain, and, followed by the Duke, attended by Hugo and the two men-at-arms, with torches in their hands, he presently was traversing a long gallery, with his head still depressed and his arms still folded on his breast.
“By’r our Lady, but thou art wondrous chary of thy good looks!—eh, sir monk?”
“It becomes not a sinner like me to be otherwise than humble. It becomes not a poor brother of St. Benedict to assume an erect port and a bold countenance before—his grace of Florence!”
“Well said, by my troth! Whither art leading me, holy father? Ha! a stairway; it extends above us as though it had no end. Ugh! how those torches glare—how gloomy these arches seem! Lead on, sir monk!”
Ascending the stairway, they found themselves in a winding gallery, with floor of stone, low arching roof, and narrow walls. Through the mazes of this passage they swiftly wound, and presently they stood at the foot of another stairway.
“By St. Peter!” exclaimed the Duke, “but these passages are like the windings of a witch’s den. How runs the night, holy father?”
“When I left the halls of the convent, the sands of the hour glass had fallen to within an half hour of midnight.”
“Ah! we shall be just in time for the trial of St. Areline’s power. Another gallery! By’r Ladye, but this is wondrous! In the name of thy patron, St. Benedict, I adjure thee, monk, tell me are we not near our journey’s end?”