HIGH-NOON AMID THE OLD CASTLE WALLS.

From the clear azure of the summer sky, the
mid-day sun shone over the lofty battlements and
massive towers of an ancient castle, which, rising
amid the heights of a precipitous rock, lay basking
in the warm sunlight; while along the spacious
court-yard, and among the nooks and crevices
of the dark grey walls, the mellow beams fell
lazily, gilding each point they touched, and turning
the blackened rocks to brightened gold, with
the voluptuous light of a summer noon.

The massive cliff, from whose stern foundations
the castle arose, sank suddenly down, with a preoipitous
descent, into the bed of the valley, while
around, in all the solemn grandeur of ages, swept
the magnificent forest, with its mass of verdure
mellowing in the sunlight; and, winding on its
way of silver, a broad and rapid stream, gleaming
from the deep green foliage of the encircling forest
trees, now gave each wave and ripple to the
kiss of day, and now sweeping in its shadowy
nooks, sheltered its beauty from the dazzling
light.

Far along the plain, verdant forest towered over
forest, and sloping meadows, dotted with cottages,
succeeded shelving fields, golden with wheat, or
gay with vines; while many a pleasant hill-side
arose from amid the embowering woods, with the
peaceful summit sleeping in the sunlight, and the
straight shadows of the still noon resting along
the depths of the valley, from which it greenly
ascended.

Along the edge of the horizon, amid the tall
peaks of the far-off mountains, summer clouds,
vast and gorgeous, lay basking in the sunlight,
with their fantastic forms, of every hue and shape—
now dark, now bright, now golden, now grey,
and again white as the unsunned snow—all clearly
and delicately relieved by the back-ground of
azure, transparent and glassy with its own unspotted
clearness.

The hour was still and solemn, with the peculiar
silence and solemnity of the high noon; the
broad banner floated heavily from the loftiest tower
of the castle, unruffled by a whisper of the wind;
and along the court-yard, and throughout the castle,
a death-like silence reigned, which betokened
aught else than the presence of numerous bodies
of armed men within the castle walls.

The sentinels who waited at the castle gate,
rested indolently upon their pikes, and glancing
over the spacious court-yard, marked, with a look
of discontent, the absence of all signs of animation
from those walls which had so often rung
with sounds of gay carousal and shouts of merriment.
All was still and solemn where, in days
bygone, not a sound had awoke the echoes of the

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time-darkened walls save the loud laugh of the
careless reveller, the merry carol of the minstrel,
or the glee-song of the banquet hall.

A footstep—a mailed and booted footstep—broke
the silence of the air, and presently appearing from
the shadow of the lofty hall door of the castle, a
stout and strong-limbed soldier emerged into the
light of the sun. As he descended the steps of
stone, he paused for a moment, and glanced around
the court-yard. Stout, without being bulky in
figure, the person of the yeoman was marked by
broad shoulders, a chest massive and prominent,
arms that were all bone and muscle, and legs that
discovered the bold and rugged outline of strong
physical power and ability, hardened by fatigue
and toil.

He raised his cap of buff, surmounted by a dark
plume, and plated with steel, from his brow, and
the sunbeams fell upon a rugged countenance,
darkened by the sun, and seamed by innumerable
wrinkles, with a low, yet massive forehead, a nose
short, straight, yet prominent, a wide mouth, with
thin lips, cheek bones high and bold in outline,
while his clear blue eyes, with their quick and
varying glance, afforded a strange contrast to his
toil-hardened and sunburnt features. Around his
throat, and over his prominent chin, grew a thick
and rugged beard, dark as his eyebrows in hue,
while his hair, slightly touched by age, and worn
short and close, gave a marked outline to his head,
that completed the expression of dogged courage
and blunt frankness visible in every lineament of
his countenance.

Attired in doublet and hose of buff, defended by
a plate of massive steel in the breast, with smaller
plates on each arm and leg, the yeoman wore
boots of slouching buckskin, while a broad belt of
darkened leather, thrown over his manly chest,
supported the short, straight sword, which depended
from his left side.

Having glanced along the court-yard, and
marked the sentinels waiting lazily beside the
castle gate, the yeoman's eye wandered to the
banner which clung heavily around the towering
staff, and then depositing his cap on his head
with an air of discontent, he exclaimed, as he
again surveyed the castle yard—

“St. Withold!” he cried, in a voice as rugged
as his face—“St. Withold! but some foul spell
of the fiend's own making has fallen upon these
old walls! All dull—all dead—all stupid! Even
yon flag, which kissed the breeze of the Holy Land
not three months agone, looks dull and drowsy.
'Slife! a man might as well be dead as live in this
manner. No feasting—no songs—no carousing!
Ugh! A pest take it all, I say! No jousts—no
tournaments—no mellays! The foul fiend take
it, I say; and Sathanas wither the heathen hand
that winged the poisoned javelin at my knightly
Lord—Julian, Count of this gallant castle Di Albarone!
The foul fiend wither the hand of the
paynim dog, I say!”

“Ha, ha, ha! my good Robin,” laughed a clear
and youthful voice, “by my troth, thou'rt sadly
out of temper! What has ruffled thee, my buffand-buckskin?
Sancta Maria—what a face!”

Robin turned, and beheld the slender form of a
daintily apparelled youth, whose full cheeks were
wrinkled with laughter, while his merry hazel
eyes seemed dancing in the light of their own
glee.

“Out of temper!” exclaimed rough Robin, as
he glanced at the laughing youth; “out of temper?
By St. Withold! there's good reason for't,
too. Look ye, my bird of a page, never since I
left the service of mine own native prince, the
brave Richard, of the Lion Heart—never since
the day when the gallant Sir Geoffrey, o' th' Long-sword,
drew his sword in the wars of Palestine,
under the banner of Count Julian Di Albarone,
have I felt so sick, so wearied in heart, as I do
this day—mark ye, my page! `Out of temper,'
forsooth! Answer me, then, popinjay—does not
our gallant Lord Julian lie wasting away in yon
sick chamber, with the poison of an incurable
wound eating his very heart? Answer me that,
Guiseppo.”

“Aye, marry does he, my good Robin,” the page
answered, as he played with a jewelled chain that
hung depending from his neck; “but then thou
knowest he will recover. He will again mount
his war-horse! Aye, my good Lord Julian will
again lead armies to battle in the wilds of Palestine!
He will, by my troth, Rough Robin!”

“I fear me, never, never,” the yeoman replied,
in a solemn tone. “Look ye, Guiseppo, what
dost think of this thin-faced half brother of the
Count, the scholar Aldarin? There's a mystery
about the man—I like him not. Thy master, the
Duke of Florence, hath now been three days at
this good castle of Albarone—why is he so much
in the company of this keen-eyed Aldarin? By
St. Withold! I like it not. Marry, boy, but the
devil's a brewing a pretty pot of yeast for somebody's
bread! Guiseppo, canst tell me naught

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concerning the object of the visit of thy master'
the Duke, to this castle—hey, boy?”

“Why, Robin,” replied the page, as, placing
one small hand on either side of his slender waist,
he glanced at the yeoman with a sidelong look;
“why, Robin, didst ever hear of—of—the fair
Ladye Annabel? Eh, Robin?”

“The fair Ladye Annabel! Tut! boy, thou triflest
with me. The fair Ladye Annabel—she is
the lovely daughter of this crusty old scholar.
Her mother was an Eastern woman; and the fair
girl first saw the light in the wilds of Palestine
when the scholar Aldarin accompanied his brother
thither. Marry, tis more than sixteen—seventeen
years since. 'Tis long ago—very long. By St.
Withold! those were merry days. But come, sir
page, why name the Ladye Annabel and the Duke
in the same breath?”

The restless Guiseppo sprang aside with a nimble
movement, and then folding his arms, stood at
the distance of a few paces, regarding the stout
yeoman with a look of mock gravity and solemn
humor.

“What wouldst give to know, Robin?” he exclaimed,
with a peculiar contortion of his mirthful
face. “Hark ye, my stout yeoman, `My Lord
Duke of Florence and the Ladye Annabel, Duchess
of Florence.' Dost like the sound? What says
my rough soldier, now?”

“I see a light,” slowly responded Robin; “I
see a light!” and he slowly drew his sword halfway
from the scabbard. “But as yet 'tis but a
pestilent Jack o' lanthorn light, dancing about a
tangled marsh of pits and bogs, with plenty o'
hidden traps to catch honest men by the heels, i'
faith. Annabel and the Duke! Ho—ho! Then
the game's up with the son o' th' Count—my
Lord Adrian?”

“Wag that clumsy tongue o' thine with a spice
o' caution, Robin,” whispered the merry page.
“See, the sharp-faced steward o' th' castle draws
nigh, and with him a group of sworn grumblers.
The four old esquires who followed our lord to
battle in the wilds o' Palestine—a soldier, with a
carbuncled visage, and a lounging servitor, the
huntsman o' th' castle. Hark! didst ever hear
such eloquent growling?”

And as Robin turned to listen, he beheld the
strangely contrasted party lounging slowly along
the castle yard, with the indolent gait of men
having little to do save to eat, to drink, to sleep,
and to gossip, while around them the lazy hours
of the silent castle walls dragged onward with
wings of lead.

“Talk not to me of thrift, sir steward,” cried
the bluff-faced and thick-headed huntsman. “My
Lord, Count Julian, was well—not a day passed
but a lusty buck was steaming on the castle
hearth—”

“Wine flowed like water,” chimed in the soldier
with the fiery nose. “Your true soldier swore by
his beaker alone—”

“Now!” interrupted the sharp-faced steward,
waving his thin hands, and with an expressive
shrug of the shoulders; “now, my lord, the Count,
is sick. The scholar Aldarin hath the rule. Tell
me, sir huntsman, and you, sir, of the fiery nose,
is there any waste o' flesh or liquor in the castle?
Is not the signor careful of the beeves of my lord.
No longer are we quiet folks disturbed by your
carousings; no silly dances, no rude catches o'
vile camp-follower songs! By the Virgin, no!”

“By the true wood o' th' cross, sir steward
thou'rt a rare one!” growled a white-haired esquire,
as his scarred and sunburnt visage was turned
angrily toward the sharp-faced steward. “Dost
think men o' mettle are made o' such broomstick
bones and mud-puddle blood as thou? Body o'
Bacchus, no! `No carousing!' I'd e'en like to
see thee on a jolly carouse!”

“Say rather, sir esquire,” Robin the Rough,
exclaimed, as the party reached his side, “say
rather, you'd e'en wish to see a death's head
making mirth at a feast, or a funeral procession
strike up a jolly fandago! Sir steward at a feast!—
the owl at a gathering o' nightingales!”

The sharp-faced steward was about to make an
angry reply, when a sudden thrill ran through the
party. Each tongue was stilled, and each man
stood motionless in the full glare of the noonday
beams.

“Hist! The Signor Aldarin approaches,” whispered
the page Guiseppo. “He comes from the
castle gate along to the castle hall.”

And as each head was stealthily turned over the
shoulder toward the castle gate, there came gliding
along, with cat-like steps and down cast look,
a man of severe aspect, whose grey eye—cold,
flashing, and clear, in its unchangeable glance—
seemed as though it could read the very heart.

A tunic of dark velvet, disclosing the spare outlines
of his slim figure, reached to his ancles, and

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over this garment, depending from his right shoulder,
he wore a robe of similar color, passed under
his left arm, joined in front by a chain of gold,
and then falling in sweeping folds to his sandalled
feet.

A cap of dark fur, bright with a single gem of
strange lustre, gave a striking relief to his high,
pale forehead, seamed by a single deep wrinkle
shooting upward from between the eyebrows,
while his grey hair fell in slight masses down
along the hollow cheeks and over his neck and
shoulders.

“This is the—scholar!” growled one of the
white-haired esquires. “His days have been passed
in the labaratory, while his brother's sword
hath flashed at the head of armies.”

“The saints preserve me from the wizard-tribe,
say I!” muttered Robin the Rough; and as he
spoke, with an involuntary movement of fear, the
party separated on either side of the castle hall,
leaving room for the passage of the Signor Aldarin.

He came slowly onward, with his head downcast,
neither looking to the one side or to the other.
He ascended the steps of stone, and in a moment
was lost to the view of the loiterers in the castle
yard.

The hall of the castle passed, a passage traversed,
and another stairway ascended, the stooping
scholar stood in a small ante-chamber, with
the light of the noonday sun subdued to a twilight
obscurity by the absence of windows from
the place, while an evening gloom hung around
the narrow walls, the arching ceiling of darkened
stone, and the floor of tesselated marble. A single
casement, long and narrow, reaching from
floor to arch, gave entrance to a straggling beam
of daylight, disclosing the stout and muscular form
of a man-at-arms, with armor and helmet of steel,
who, pike in hand, waited beside a massive door,
opening into one of the principal apartments of
the castle.

With a soft, gliding footstep, the Signor Aldarin
glided along the tesselated floor, and stood
beside the man-at-arms, ere he was aware of his
approach.

“Ha! Balvardo, thou keepest strict watch beside
the sick chamber of my lord.” The words broke
from the Signor Aldarin. “Hast obeyed my behest?”

“E'en so, my lord,” the sentinel began, in a
rough, surly tone.

“How, schelm! Dost name me with the title
of my brother? Have a care, good Balvardo,
have a care!”

“He chides me in a rough voice,” murmured
the sentinel, as though speaking to his own ear;
“and yet a wild light flashes over his features at
the word. Signor, I but mistook the word—a
slip o' th' tongue,” he exclaimed aloud. “Thy
behests have been obeyed. No one has been suffered
to pass into the chamber of my Lord Di Albarone
since morning dawn, save the fair Ladye
Annabel, who waits beside the couch of the
wounded knight.”

“Come hither, Balvardo. Look from this narrow
window: mark you well the dial-plate in the castle
yard. In a few moments the shadow will
sweep across the path of high noon. When high
noon and the shadow meet, thy charge is over.
The soothing potion which I gave my brother at
daybreak, will have taken its proper effect. Until
that moment, keep strict watch: let not a soul
enter the Red Chamber on the peril of thy life!”

And with the command, the Signior swept from
the ante-chamber, gliding along a corridor opposite
the one from which he had just emerged, and
his low footsteps in a moment had ceased to echo
along the dark grey arches.

“He is gone,” the sentinel murmured, slowly
pacing the tesselated floor. “He comes like a cat—
he glides hence like a ghost. Hark! footsteps
from opposite corridors meeting in this ante-chamber.
By'r our Lady! here comes Adrian, the
son of this sick lord, and from the opposite gallery
emerges the monk Albertine, the tool and counsellor
of my Lord of Florence. 'Tis a moody
monk and a shrewd boy. I'faith, there's a pain
o' 'em.”

And as he spoke, sweeping from the shadow of
the northern gallery, came a dark-robed monk,
walking with hastened step, his arms folded on
his breast, and his head drooped low, as if in
thought, while the outlines of his face were enveloped
in the folds of his priestly cowl. And as he
swept onward toward the centre of the ante-chamber,
from the southern gallery, with slow and solemn
steps, advanced a youth of some twenty summers,
attired in the gay dress of a cavalier, with
a frank, open visage, marked by the lines of premature
thought, and relieved by rich and luxuriant
locks of golden hair sweeping along each
cheek down to the shoulders.

“Whither speed ye, Lord Adrian?” exclaimed
the deep, sonorous voice of the monk, as the twain

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met breast to breast in the centre of the rich mosaic
floor. “Whither speed ye, heir of Albarone, at
this hour?”

“Whither do I speed?” cried the cavalier
starting with sudden surprise. “Sir monk, I
wend to the sick chamber of my father.”

The monk grasped the cavalier suddenly by
the right hand, and raised it as suddenly in the
light of the sunbeams streaming through the solitary
window.

“An hour since, this hand was graced by a signet
ring: the signet ring which has been an heir
loom in thy house for centuries. Dost remember
the prophecy spoken of that strange ring? Dost
remember the rude lines of the vandal seer:

“Sir monk, the lines are rude; yet I mind me
well the words of the prophecy are an household
sound to an heir of Albarone. Yet why this sudden
grasp of my hand? Why thus urgent? The
fire in thine eye seems not of earth.”

“Lord Adrian, by the Virgin tell me how long
since parted this finger from the ruby signet ring
of thy house? Never parted that ring from the
hand of heir of Albarone, without sudden evil,
fearful doom, or unheard of death, gathering thick
and dark around thy house!”

“I missed not the signet ring till this moment.
An instant ago, I was in my chamber. Thy air
is strange and solemn for the confessor of this jovial
Duke, yet I will turn me, and seek the signet
without delay. Thy warning may be welltimed.”

“Boy, a word in thine ear. My life has been
strange and dark. I have loved the shadow rather
than the light. I have courted the glare of
corruption in the midnight charnel house, rather
than the blaze of the noonday sun. I have made
me a home amid strange mysteries, and from the
tomes of darksome lore I have wrung the secrets
of the hidden world.”

“To what tends all this, sir monk? By'r our
Ladye, thou'rt strangely moved!”

“And from my hidden lore have I learned this
mystery of mysteries. When the stillness of mid
night hangs like lead over the noonday hour—
when at mid-noon, a strange, solemn, and voiceless
silence pervades the air, spreads through the
universe, and impresses the heart of each living
thing with a feeling of unutterable AWE, then wick
ed men are doing, in the sight of heaven, with the
laughter of fiends in their ears, some deed of horror,
that the fiends tremble 'mid their laughter to
behold. Some deed of nameless horror which
thrills the universe with AWE, making the hour
of noon more terrible than midnight in the charnel
house. Look abroad, Adrian—'tis high noon.
Dost hear a sound, a whisper of the wind? All
silent as death—all still as the grave! The silence
of this nameless AWE is upon the noonday
hour. Adrian, to thy chamber, to thy chamber,
and rest not till the signet ring again encircles thy
finger! There is a doom upon this hour!”

And with these words, uttered in a low, yet
deep and piercing tone, the monk glided from the
ante-chamber; and the cavalier, without a word,
as hastily retraced his steps, and in an instant had
disappeared in the shadow of the southern gallery.

“Whispered words!” muttered the bull-headed
man-at-arms. “A ring! What about a ring?
Ha—ha! The Monk and the Springald commune
together—well! I could not make out their secret,
but—but, the ring!”

And raising his sturdy form to its full height,
with a grim smile on his bearded face, Balvardo
glanced around the ante-chamber, and then, with
a low chuckle, he let his pike fall heavily upon
the pavement of stone.