It was a solemn and impressive scene!
There swept the knightly host along the green meadow, their spears gleaming on high, there darkened the smoke and lightened the blaze of the burning convent, there the calm lake extending ripples along its mountain-shores, gave its still bosom to the crimson glare of the flame, and there standing erect upon the brow of the gray rock, his slender form boldly and clearly relieved by the background of the convent walls, the light of the flame, the beams of the setting sun; Adrian Di Albarone, crazed by famine, and maddened with new-born joy, shook wildly aloft the Goblet of Gold, while his maniac laugh broke echoing on the evening air.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
THE CATHEDRAL OF FLORENCE.
THE TASK OF THE WEIRD SPIRIT IS DONE—THE CURTAIN OF FATE FALLS OVER THE TRAGEDY OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE.
Joy to Florence now, oh joy to the fair city in her streets and through her lordly halls, joy to the prince of the palace and the peasant of the cot, joy to the mountain and the dell, joy to the hill and the valley, joy to the silvery river, joy to the homes of men, joy to the shrines of God, joy, joy, forever joy!
The Duke, the people’s Duke is come to reign! Baptized by trial, chosen by the People, crowned by the Invisible, anointed by God, he comes to reign!
—So, after many pages of varied and peculiar interest writes the Chronicle of the Ancient MSS. in his extravagant way.
There are light voices filling the air, there are soft steps tripping through the lordly halls, there are costly draperies sweeping over marble floors, there are strains of music awaking the echoes of ancient domes, there are processions thronging the streets in all the pomp of crucifix and banner, gallant knights ride to and fro, shaking the glitter of their snowy plumes aloft, the poor creep from their dens of want, the mighty pour from their homes of pride, the sordid miser forgets his money bags, the merchant his wares of cost, the scholar his musty book, the bravo his knife, the children of misery their care, and all, aye all, come thronging to the high Cathedral of Florence, when the solemn priest will, ere an hour, amid the glad shouts of thousands, anoint Adrian Di Albarone, Lord Duke of Florence, and crown his fair bride, the Ladye Annabel, with the coronet for which Aldarin gave his soul.
It is morning, glad and joyous morning, the calm azure arches over the fair city, gorgeous with temple-dome and palace tower, while the gay people hasten to the grand Cathedral, anxious to behold the Duke and his fair bride.
THE POSTILLION AND THE BUXOM DAMSELS.