“See’st thou yon oaken door that terminates the gallery? The oaken door with large panels, and topped by arches of dark stone? There an’ it please thee, my Lord Duke, must thou leave thy attendants, and alone, and in the dark, we will enter the cell of the blessed St. Areline.”
“How? Leave my attendants? ‘Alone,’ sayst thou? ‘In the dark’? Beshrew me, sir monk, but this saint of thine is somewhat difficult of audience!”
“The reward she offereth is beyond price. A knowledge of the future—the dim and shadowy future! Thou shall behold thy coming deeds written in characters of light; thy future conquests shall spread themselves before thee like the varying beauties of a lovely landscape. Thou shall—”
“‘Slife! thou talkest well! Enough: we stand before the oaken door. Enter—I’ll follow thee!”
The monk passed his hand over one of the panels of the huge door, and pressing a secret spring, a narrow passage was opened, through which the brother of St. Benedict disappeared, followed by his grace of Florence.
“There they go,” Hugo exclaimed as the panel closed. “There they go upon their madcap adventure. The saints save me from all such folly!”
“And me, comrade,” cried the tallest of the men-at-arms, letting the sheath of his sword fall heavily upon the pavement of stone.
“I say amen to your prayers,” exclaimed the other, looking very wise in the torchlight.
“Ha! what noise is that?” cried Hugo, as he gave a sudden start.
“’Tis down in the court-yard,” exclaimed the tall man-at-arms. “Hark! ’tis the clashing of swords—the rattling of spears—the clashing of armor.”