“Strike for the Winged Leopard!—strike for Albarone!” responded, with one deep-toned voice the aged bearers of the bier, as they began to descend the stairway.
“Ha! an Albarone! an Albarone! Strike for the Winged Leopard! strike for Albarone!” shouted the men-at-arms, as, waving their torches on high, and brandishing their swords, they advanced with a hurried, yet measured tread, after the manner they were wont to advance to the storming of a besieged fortress.
The aged abbot of St. Peters suddenly forgot his sacred character, and stirred by the memory of the days when he had mingled in the din of battle, side by side with the noble Lord Julian, he caught up the war cry: “Albarone to the rescue!—a blow for the Winged Leopard!” and along the line of white-robed monks ran the shout: “An Albarone! Ha! for the Winged Leopard! Strike for Albarone!” and thus spreading from the men-at-arms to the abbot, from the abbot to the monks, the cry of battle resounded along the aisles of the chapel, and was echoed again and again from the fretted roof.
As the corse disappeared down the stairway, followed by the funeral train, the war song of Albarone was raised by the men-at-arms—wild and thrilling arose the notes of the chaunt, that had swelled in the van of a thousand battles.
The subterranean stairway seemed to be without end. At last, when some five score steps had been passed, the bearers of the corse found themselves in a long and narrow passage, which having slowly traversed, they stood at the head of a winding stairway.
This they descended, while louder, and yet more loud arose the chaunt of the battle song, mingling with the clash of swords and the clank of armor.
At the foot of this stairway lay another passage, narrower than the last, from which it differed in that it was hewn out of the solid rock, while the walls of the other were built of chisseled stone.
Along this passage the procession slowly proceeded, the walls approaching closer together at every step, until at last there was barely room for the bier to pass; when suddenly, as if by the wand of a magician, the scene was changed, and the funeral train found themselves in the vault of the dead.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.
THE FUNERAL TRAIN, BEARING THE CORSE ALONG THROUGH THE GROUPS OF SPECTRAL-FORMS, ARE AWE STRICKEN BY THE APPEARANCE OF A STRANGE KNIGHT.