CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THREE DAYS ELAPSE.
JOY COMES AND POWER, BUT DEATH HAS GRASPED THE VICTIM.
The morning sunshine, streaming through the deep silled casement of the convent cell, filled the lonely chamber with light.
The arching roof and the pavement of stone, the dark gray walls, thronged with monkish effigies, and the distant corner of the room, all glowed with warm glimpses of the daybeams, while a solitary soldier strode slowly along the floor, his brow darkening with a frown, as, with his clear blue eyes fixed on vacancy his mind was absorbed in painful thought.
“St. Withold! and all the Saints in heaven or earth save me now!” he absently muttered, as his right hand grasped the hilt of his good sword.—“Here’s a new wonder, a fresh mystery! Three—three days agone—we were all fighting and slashing, leading murderers to death, and pulling Dukes from their thrones, daring death in as many shapes as swords are fashioned, and all for my Lord Adrian, and lo! we bend all things to our will, dethrone the tyrant, and fill the people’s throats with an outcry for the new duke, and what comes next? Answer my good Robin—answer my old friend—where is the new duke? God knows, and the Saints might tell, an’ we knew how to ask them, but not a whit does Rough Robin know about the matter. The old priest was wont to tell me that the ways of Him above—off with thy cap, Robin—were full of mysterie. I never knew what he meant till now—”
The small door of the cell slowly grated on its hinges, and as the yeoman turned to discover the cause, he beheld standing before him a cavalier whose form was attired in glossy purple and bright gold, yet all soiled and tarnished with dust, while his young face, pale and careworn, bore traces of the fearful struggle that had shaken his soul within the past few days.
“Ah—Guiseppo! Pale and careworn—thine attire covered with dust—thy broken plume sweeping o’er thy brow——whence came ye boy, in such attire and in such a ghastly trim?”
“I greet thee, good Robin. Yesternight I left the Castle of Albarone—this morn I journeyed from the walls of Florence!”
“Thou dost bear a message?”
“I come from the nobles and the people of Florence! Three nights agone the old walls of the fair city rang with the clash of arms and the peal of trumpet, while the tramp of contending foemen shook the floor of the ducal palace, and the glimmer of their swords was reflected in the very mirrors of the Tyrant-Duke. The morning dawned at last, and dawned on Florence, no longer oppressed by the tyrant, or awed by the vassals of his power. Then it was that the nobles of Florence named their new Duke, then it was that the people confirmed their choice, while the solemn High Priest of the Invisible, by a parchment scroll affixed to a pillar of the grand cathedral, pronounced his blessing on the fortune of Adrian, Count of Albarone and Duke of Florence—”
“Thus far all was well. Then ye learned the mysterious disappearance of Lord Adrian? Speak I the truth, Guiseppo? The dark scenes which three nights agone gave new legends of horror to the walls of this convent of darkness? The death-bowl administered by the hands of Albertine—the watch of the Ladye Annabel beside the corse—the disappearance of the body, and what troubles me but little, the disappearance of the tyrant-duke? A thousand such dukes might disappear, and we could tell, without a doubt, what became of them all, ‘the devil takes care of his own’ saith the adage—”