The light of the lamps, burning along the tomb
fell over the steps of stone, and cast its crimson

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glow over the dread face of the Demon-Form,
while the sands of the fourth part of an hour,
sank in the glass of time—silent and solitary time.
The kinght in armor of azure steel, was the first
to rise from the strange slumber which the chymical
spell of the Scholar had flung around the
sensos of the avengers. He arose, he looked wildly
over the steps of stone and along the cavern—
Aldarin was gone.

The azure knight gazed around the gloom and
darkness of the vault of death, for some moments,
while the utter silence of the place impressed his
heart with a strange awe.

A sound struck his ear. It was the sound of
men marching in order of battle. It grew louder
and was mingled with the clanking of armour and
the clashing of swords. Listening intently for a
few moments the knight of the azure armour at
last beheld a body of men-at-arms emerge from the
narrow passage that led into the cavern, with long
ines of torches shining upon a brilliant array of
upraised swords, armour of gold, mingled with
shining spears and waving pennons. They advanced
in regular order, being formed in two
distinct columns, between which, at the head of
the party, walked one distinguished from the
others by the richness of his armour, while his
voice of command showed him to be the leader of
the company.

While they poured across the floor of the cavern
the knight of the azure armour scanned them
with great attention, as he exclaimed with a shout
of joy.

“They come—the shallow-pated Duke and his
minions. One blow—one good straight-forward
blow, and I am Lord of the halls of my ancestors.”

With his right hand he seized his sword, and
with his left he waved the banner of the Winged
Leopard.

“Up—up!—Ye men Albarone. On with your
swords, and strike for the Winged Leopard, for
our Lord and his rights!”

The men-at-arms awoke like men awaking from
troubled sleep and hideous dreams. They groped
hastily for their swords over the steps of stone
and along the platform, and in a few moments
they stood erect and prepared for fight.

“Range yourselves, my brave men, on either
side of the tomb, in the darkness. Ye number
fifty in all; our enemies appear to count ten times
our force. Behold!—they continue to pour into
the cavern. But hist!—The watchword is—`Ha!
for the Winged Leopard.”'

The men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence were
now within one hundred yards of the mound.

“Well, by St. Paul,” exclaimed the Duke, “this
is certainly a very dreary looking place. Really
one could imagine this cavern to be a very fit habitation
for witches, devils, or any other unnecessary
things. Where be these caitiff knaves of
which my Lord the Count Aldarin told us? Advance
my brave men; find these villians. They
have stolen the Ladye Annabel away—despatch
them, and then we will all have time to share the
banquet of our lordly host!”

The broad banner of the Duke, of glaring red,
having a lion rampant emblazoned on its folds,
was now unfurled, and the company advanced
in the same careless order, in which they had
proceeded over the floor of the cavern.

“By the tomb of my ancestors will I flesh my
maiden sword. By the corse of my father will I
fight for my right.”

The knight of the Azure armour grasped his
sword more firmly. In another moment the
torches of the Duke's followers would flash upon
the armour of his ambushed men, in another
moment he would stand disclosed before the eyes
of the Duke. With a flashing eye he measured
the clear level space that lay between the mound
and the advancing men at arms.

A whisper to his men—a firmer grasp of his
sword, and a firmer grasp of the banner staff, and
the knight in three good leaps sprang down the
twenty steps of stone, shouting as he sprang —
“Ha! for the Winged Leopard! Ha! for Albarone!”

At his back, with swords drawn, and springing
with all the litheness of youth, came the four ancient
Esquires, and behind them, leaping from the
opposite side of the mound, with swords likewise
drawn, and with the war-cry pealing to the
cavern's roof, came the two bodies of men-at-arms,
numbering twenty-five in each company.

Another leap and another spring and the
Azure knight stands within striking distance of
the astonished Duke. Quick as thought he planted
his banner in the cavern floor, and grasping his
sword with both hands, he whirled it once round
his head, and throwing all his strength in the
blow, he brought it down full upon the golden
crest of the tyrant, who was driven to the very
earth by the vigor of the stroke.

In an instant the foot of the azure knight was

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upon the breast of the prostrate prince, and while
the men-at-arms, on right and left, and the esquires
at his back, were carrying on the strife
right merrily, he prepared for another stroke. He
shortened his grasp of the sword, and gazing
sternly through the bars of his helmet, down into
his fallen enemy's uncovered face, with all the
strength of his stalwart arm, he essayed to send
his weapon into his very throat.

The blow descended whizzing thro' the air, but
its aim was foiled. One of the ancient esquires,
with a stout stroke of his sword, sent a vassal reeling
before the person of the Duke, and thus drove
aside the blow of the azure knight, which sank
deep into the lifeless corse thrown so suddenly
before him.

And now the followers of the Duke gathered
around the champions of the Winged Leopard, in
vast numbers, hurrying forward without order,
and dropping their torches in their haste.

The azure knight was driven back, and as he
receded, the blood of the oldest of the gallant esquires
stained his armour.

“On, my brave men!” shouted he. “A blow for
Albarone!” At every exclamation a foe took the
measure of his grave upon the cavern floor.

“Ha! for the Winged Leopard!” he shouted, as
perceiving the head of the Duke among the throng
he essayed to greet him with one gallant blow.
At the same moment his men-at-arms sunk on
one knee and thus received the disorderly charge
of their foes. It was in vain. On all sides thronged
the followers of the Duke, and one after the other
the brave champions of the Winged Leopard fell
bleeding and dead upon the pavement of stone.

Onward and onward pressed the azure knight
gallantly breasting the flood before him, throwing
his foes to the right and left until he again fronted
the Duke.

And at the very instant, with soft and noiseless
foosteps, there glided along the steps of the mound
of stone, a fair and lovely form, clad in a strange
robe, of white and gold, soiled by the cavern earth
and floating abroad in the night air, in waving
folds like spirit-wings. She gained the platform
of the mound, and fixed one half-conscious glance
upon the corse of the dead, while her large blue
eyes warmed with a glance of holy affection.

“He sleeps, my uncle”—she murmured—“anon,
I will give him the potion—and then—ah, then
he will arise and smile upon me!”

She turned her wild glance to the scene passing
in the cavern floor far below, she heard the distant
shouts, she caught a vision of one well-known
form, which her half-crazed brain deemed a visitant
from the spirit world.

It was a picture of loveliness, rising amid gloom
and death, the beautiful maiden raised to her full
stature, one fair hand resting upon the dark mound,
while with the other thrown wildly across her
brow she essayed to pierce the gloom of the cavern
beyond. Her robes hung floating round her form,
revealing the delicate symmetry of her shape, the
rising of the snow-white bosom as it heaved in the
light, the arching bend of the neck, while the
blooming loveliness of her countenance, half-shaded
by the upraised hand, was varied by sudden
and changing, yet dreamlike expressions.

“I see his form”—she murmed—“and yet 'tis a
dream—they seize him, they—O, heaven help me
they raise their swords above his head—”

“Maiden fling thy robe!—fling the death-pall
over the funeral lamps!”—a solemn voice broke on
the air directly overhead.

She looked above, she shrieked with horror, for
the cold strange eyes of the Demon-Figure met
her gaze.

Meanwhile breasting his way thro' the opposing
crowd of foemen, the azure knight neared the
person of the Duke, he stood before the tyrant face
to face.

“Die, tyrant!” he shouted, as springing back to
give effect to his blow, he threw his sword on
high. It decended full upon the shoulder of the
Duke, and severing his armour, snapped suddenly
short, and the azure knight was left defenceless
in the hands of his enemies.

“Up with the caitiff's vizor,” shouted the duke.
“Let us see the bravo's face. Up with his vizor.”

The captive knight cast a glance around, and
beheld his followers—the dying and the dead—
strewn ever the floor of the cavern. The brave old
Esquires lay side by side, their sinewy hands still
grasping their broken swords, and their grey hair
dabbled in blood.

“Sir Duke,” exclaimed the captive, “behold the
bravo!” He raised his vizor, and the features of
Adrian Di Albarone, pale and sunken, were revealed.
“Behold the bravo!”

“Now by the body of God!” shouted the Duke
boiling with passion, “thou shalt not escape me
this time.—Dog—”

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