“They come—they come”—whispered the Ladye Annabel—“They come to bear me to the bridal!”
The bell of the convent, deep-toned and booming, rang out the hour of—one—the fatal hour after midnight.
“Strike for the Winged Leopard—strike for Albarone!” the shout came echoing along the corridors.
“Strike for Albarone and Florence!” the mingling war-cry reached the ears of the maiden. And in a moment, the tapestry, concealing the entrance to the room from which Adrian had issued ere he drank the bowl, was hurriedly thrust aside, and amid the blaze of torches, the Ladye Annabel, beheld the glare of armor and the flash of upraised swords, while the stern visage of the warrior-band were gazing upon her pale countenance and trembling form.
“Saved, by St. Withold!” shouted a soldier, springing from the crowd—“Ladye tell us, in God’s name, where is the Lord Adrian?”
“They have borne him to the grave!” was the whispered and ghastly response.
The bluff soldier turned aside, and it might be noted that his blue eyes were wet with tears. In a moment he again faced the crowd of warriors.
“Behold the Queen!” he shouted, and the men-at-arms sank kneeling to the floor—“all hail the fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”
And the solitary chamber rung with the echo of the thunder shout—
“All hail the Fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”