They had arrived at the lofty arching door of the castle leading into the court-yard, when Adrian was alarmed by a noise and shouting in the galleries which he had just traversed.
“All is lost!” thought Adrian, as his hand caught the hilt of his sword.
“Fear not,” whispered the monk, “but push boldly onward.”
They now descended into the court-yard, where a richly-attired page held a steed ready for his grace. Springing with one bound into the saddle, Aldarin passed under the raised portcullis, with the monk riding at his side, and the bridle reins of the courtiers ringing in the rear.
Thus far all was well. The monk leaned from his saddle, and whispered to Adrian:
“One effort more, brave boy. Nerve thyself for the trial at the palace gate.”
Traversing one of the most spacious streets of the city of Florence, they soon arrived before the lofty gate of the palace of the Duke.
Here a crowd of men-at-arms, blazing in armor of gold, saluted the supposed Duke with every mark of respect.
And finally, innumerable dangers past, behold Adrian enter the palace, traverse innumerable chambers, hung with gorgeous tapestry, lighted by lamps of silver and of gold, and thronged with nobles and courtiers, who much wondered to behold their lord pass them by, without one mark of recognition or sign of respect.
At last Adrian arrived before folding doors ornamented with exquisite carving, and having the arms of the Duke emblazoned in glowing colors upon the panels.