“Vassals of Albarone, form around the corse of your lord. Draw your swords, and raise the shout: ‘Albarone, to the rescue! Strike for the Winged Leopard—strike for Albarone!’”
With the battle cry pealing, their swords flashing in the light, and their torches waving on high, the men-at-arms formed in files of four behind the bier, which now began to move slowly toward the subterranean stairway.
In the rear of the men-at-arms came the Ladye Annabel, followed by the venerable abbot, bearing aloft a crucifix of gold; while on either side walked rosy-cheeked children, clad in robes of white, and holding censers in their hands, which ever and anon they swung to and fro, filling the air with perfume of frankincense and myrrh.
Then came the monks, in their mingled robes of white and black, walking with slow and solemn tread, and holding in one hand a torch, while the other grasped a cross.
As the ancient esquires who bore the bier of beechen wood, arrived at the trap-door which discovered the subterranean stairway, the funeral train halted for an instant.
The sight was full of grandeur.
The light of a thousand torches threw a ruddy glow upon the folds of the broad banner—upon the glistening armor and bright swords of the men-at-arms—over the snow-white attire of the long array of monks, and along the cold face of the dead. The carvings that decorated the walls of the church—the altar, rich with a thousand offerings—the cross of gold, and the rare paintings—the arched and fretted roof, and the lofty pillars, were all shown in bold and strong relief.
“Ye ancient men who bear the corse of the Lord Di Albarone, ye who served your lord with a faithful service while living, prepare to descend into the vault of the dead, there to lay your sacred burden beside his fathers. Vassals of Albarone, grasp your swords yet tighter, and join, every man, in the battle song of our race. The house of Albarone enter the tomb, not with wail and lamentation, but with song and joy, as though they went to battle; with swords flashing, with armor clanking, and with the broad banner of the Winged Leopard waving above their heads.”
Right full and loud sounded the voice of Count Aldarin, while his bent form straightened proudly erect, as though he were suddenly fired with the warlike spirit of his ancestors. His dark eye flashed as he shouted, waving the banner over the bier:
“Men of Albarone, to the rescue!”