“Brethren, ye have all heard the fearful story of that night of terror—the farewell of Albertine, uttered in the hillside cot, his sudden re-appearance before the eyes of Adrian, when awaiting his doom in the earth-hidden vault—ye have heard how the bowl of death was given to the Duke-elect by the monk—the singular disappearance of Albertine and the Duke when they entered the Chamber of St. Areline—all has reached your ears, and all is wrapt in mystery—”
“The dark story of the bowl of death, hath been darkening o’er my soul since that night of terror and joy,” exclaimed a veiled Monk of the Order through the folds of his robe as he slowly rose from his seat. “A light breaks over the chaos of doubt and mystery—a sad and fearful light. Albertine crazed by revenge, maddened by his thirst for the blood of the Tyrant Duke, beheld the midnight hour approach, while the Brothers of the Invisible still delayed their coming. The Duke bade him perform this work of doom. Albertine must either refuse, or excite the suspicion of the tyrant. ’Twas a terrible thing—oh, most terrible to poison the young Lord at the bidding of this changeling Duke, but Albertine had no alternative. The plans of revenge were not yet altogether ripe, an hour would warm them into life. He was forced to slay Adrian to retain the confidence of the Tyrant—sooner would Albertine make the Fair City itself a desert of whitened bones, than the Duke, against whom his very soul had sworn vengeance, should live. He slew Lord Adrian, though his heart wept blood-drops in the act—and then came his strange and mysterious vengeance on the Tyrant.”
A low deep murmur ran round the walls of the Tower-room.
Every heart was impressed with the terrible truth shadowed in the words of the Brother of the Steel, and in a pause of intense silence, each heart solemnly mused on the dark story of Albertine, his last crime, and his last revenge.
“Adrian sleeps with his murdered father,” again spoke the High Priest. “Brothers of the Holy Steel, prince and peasant, lord and monk, joined in the work of vengeance on the Wronger, death to the slayer, ye who won for the Fair City, peace and freedom, ye who rule her destinies, guide her fate, your High Priest asks you the solemn question—Who shall wear the Ducal Coronet of Florence?”
The bold words were yet ringing on his lips when a shout from the stairway leading to the tower, rang through the circular room—
“Ha—ha—ha! I bear the brand—the flaming brand! See—how it whirls on high—look how it blazes! Ye sought well and ye sought long, but ye could not find old Glow-worm and his comrades!”
The small door of the tower-room was flung suddenly open, and rushing through the aperture, the slender form of the weak and trembling maniac stood disclosed before the vision of the secret brothers; the blazing torch he grasped in his right hand flinging a blood-red light over the veiled figures of monk and neophyte, while the walls of the room were illumined with fitful glimpses of the ruddy beams.
“Ha—ha—ha! The brand, the flaming brand! Ye sought well and ye sought long—but ye might not find the nest of old Glow-worm and his brothers! Merry was the fire they built—merry, oh, merry! Cheerily the flame arose—oh cheerily! And now—ha, ha, stone burns, roof burns, floor burns, all is fire—and ha, ha, I bear the brand, the flaming brand!”
And as the maniac swung the burning brand, whirling and hissing round his head, there came hastening through the narrow doorway a gaily attired cavalier, bearing the trembling form of a young and lovely woman in his arms, followed by a stout and bluff soldier, whose face was stamped with an expression of alarm most strange to see on his determined features, while he aided the youth and maiden onward in their flight from the smoke and flame below.