“Priests of the solemn Order of the Holy Steel what shall be the doom of the tyrant, the betrayer, the assassin?”
“Death!”
“Initiates of the Order, do ye accord this judgment?”
“Death, death, death!”
“Doomsman, arise and proclaim the judgment of the Order of the Monks of the Holy Steel?”
“Hear, oh heaven,—oh earth,—oh hell,” arose the harsh tones of the doomsman, “Urbano, Duke of Florence, tyrant, assassin, and betrayer, is doomed! I give his body to the gibbet, to the axe, to the steel! Though he sleeps within the bridal chamber, there will the vengeance of the Order grasp him; though he wields the sceptre on his ducal throne, there will the death blow strike the sceptre from his hand, his carcass from the throne, though he kneels at the altar, there will the dagger seek his heart. Doomed, doomed, doomed!”
And then, in a voice of fierce denunciation, he gave forth to the noon-day air, the dark and fearful curse of the Order, whose sentences of woe may not be written down on this page; a curse so dark, so dread, and terrible, that the very priests of the Order drooped their heads down low on each bosom, as the sounds of the doomsman startled their ears.
“Let his name be written down in the book of judgment, as the Doomed!”
“Lo, it is written!”
And as the doomsman spoke, a level slab of gray stone, which varied the appearance of the green sward, some yards behind the chair of the High Priest, slowly arose from the sod, and, unperceived by the monks of the Order, two figures, robed in the cowl and monkish gown of the secret band, emerged silently from the bosom of the earth, and took their stations at the very backs of the torch bearers.