In an instant all was confusion and uproar. The Esquires set down the corse, and together with the men-at-arms, clustered around the figure in azure armor, shouting and making the very cavern’s roof re-echo with their exclamations of joy.
The tumult and out-cry, coupled with the name of Adrian, reached the ears of the fair Ladye Annabel, who already half swooning with terror, now felt her brain whirling in wild confusion, as she fell fainting in the arms of the Abbot of St. Peters.
“Brethren,”—cried the Abbot, addressing the monks—“Haste ye away to the upper air for aid, while I stay here with the maiden, and exorcise yon devil, if devil it may be, with solemn prayers and ceremonies. Away—away, the fair Ladye may die, ere ye can return with aid.”
It needed no second word from the Abbot; the Monks gazed in each other’s faces with affrighted looks, and then trooping hurriedly together, hastened across the floor of the cavern, followed by the Servitors, who but a moment past formed part of the procession. It was but an instant ere the white robes of the monks, and the gay livery of the servitors, were lost to view within the confines of the narrow passage.
The Abbot holding the fainting maiden in his arms, her white attire mingling with his sacerdotal robes, gazed around the cavern, and found to his astonishment that all around him was wrapt in darkness, while far ahead, he could discern the lights of the death mound, breaking through the gloom, with the glare of torches, held aloft by the men-at-arms, creating a brilliant space between his position and the mound of the dead.
“All is dark”—murmured the Abbot—“All is dark around me—yet far ahead, I behold the men-at-arms clustering round the Strange Figure—their swords rise aloft, and their distant shouts break on my ear! She lays in my arms, cold, cold and senseless. Save me, mother of Heaven, but I cannot feel the beating of her heart—I hear no sound of aid, no voice of assistance! The cavern is damp, and she may die ere they come with succor,—I will away and seek for aid myself. Lay there, gentle Ladye, at the foot of this strange Statue—thus I enfold thee in my robes of white—thus I defend thee from the cold and damp—in a moment I will be with thee again! God aid my steps!”
At the foot of a figure of stone, wrapping her form in his glittering robe of white and gold, which he doffed from his own trembling frame, the Abbot rested the Ladye Annabel, all cold and insensible, and then hastened from the Cavern in search of aid.
There was a long, long pause around the spot where lay the maiden, while fearful mysteries were enacting far beyond, on the summit of the Death-Mound.
When the Abbot again returned he was companioned by armed men, with glittering attire and flashing swords. He sought the resting-place of the maiden; he beheld nothing but the rough floor of the cavern. The Ladye Annabel had disappeared, and the grotesque figure rising from the pavement seemed to grin in mockery as the horror-stricken Abbot gazed upon the vacant stone, where he had laid the maiden down to rest, her form of beauty, sheltered by his sacred robes.