“Hast thou no word of the Lord Adrian?”
“Ask the tombs in the aisles of the convent chapel, which yesternoon we ransacked in search of his body, and let their yawning mouths tell the story of our fruitless labor. St. Withold! scarce a foot of earth in the convent garden that we did not turn to the sun in our search—not a cell in the earth-hidden recesses of this foul den, that we failed to illumine with the glare of our torches, not a wizard nook or a blood-stained corner in this devil’s hall, but was laid open to the light, in our strange chase after the body of the dead! And it was all in vain, Guiseppo, all in vain!”
“The Ladye Annabel—hast thou no word of her, Rough Robin?”
“St. Withold, I see her now! Traversed we the dark walls in search of the corse? She went with us, though her feet sunk ankle-deep in the dust of the dead, at every step. She led us on to the fatal room, where the corse had been stolen from her grasp, while bewitched by the drugged potion; she pointed the way to the dark cavern beneath the convent, and when every heart failed, awed with supernatural fear, she, even the fair and gentle Ladye Annabel, still cried on, and on! An’ the saints shower not their blessings on her head, I’ll turn Paynim-hound, and kiss the crescent!”
“Dwelleth the Ladye still within the Convent walls?”
“Since the hour of our search yesternight, she hath shrouded herself within the recesses of the apartments furnished for her use by the vassals of Albarone, when they hastened hither, two days agone. Hast thou a message for the Ladye?”
“I bear a message for the Ladye, and a parchment scroll for the Invisible! Robin come hither—a word in thy ear!”
With the mystic sign of a Neophyte of the Holy Steel, he asked the way to the solemn place, where the order assembled holding their secret yet mighty councils.
“Even now they hold their solemn council, within these convent walls,” answered Robin the Rough.—“In a moment I’ll lead thee to the secret chamber. Yet stay a single moment, Guiseppo. Thou knowest I left the castle on that fearful day, when, when, od’s death I cannot name the deed—”
“That blow, Saints of Heaven! will the memory never pass from my brain! Thou wouldst speak of—of my father?”