CHAPTER THE SIXTH. SIR GEOFFREY O' TH' LONGSWORD.
Along a mossy, winding path, that led
through the sunlit glades and shady recesses of
a green and bowery forest, two travellers, one a
stripling, and the other a man of some forty winters,
were wending their way, while the dew was
yet upon the turf, and while the morning carol of
innumerable birds arose from the bosom of the
rich foliage.
The cheeks of the youth were strangely puffed
out, his lips were gathered like the mouth of a
purse, while he whistled with an earnestness that
was certainly wonderful. Presently he spoke—
“By'r Ladye, but that was the most exquisite
thing of all. Eh? Good Robin? The idea of thy
carcase being perched upon the back of the Demon
Statue in that pestilent cavern. And frightening
the old Count into fits, too! Ha! ha! ha!
'Twas rich! By the Saints it was! Oh, Robin,
thou art certainly the very devil for mischief!
That prank of gagging the old Israelite, and stealing
his beard, coat, pack and all, was cruel, by my
troth it was! where didst thou leave the old gripefist?”
“As I told thee before, thou rattlebrained popinjay!”
the other replied with a good natured smile
“With a full heavy heart I wended along the highway,
on the eve of the bridal, thinking of the fair
Ladye Annabel, when who should I behold trudging
before me, but this good son of Moses. I laid
him upon the earth in a wink—gagged him, and
concealed him in the cottage of a peasant, whose
ears I filled with a terrible tale of the Jew's roguery;
how he had stolen the plate of the castle, and
so on. I then disguised myself in the Hebrew's
attire; with what success you are already aware.
After I had effected the deliverance of the Ladye
Annabel, I released the Jew who ran beardless
and affrighted, as fast as his legs could carry him,
out of the demesnes of Albarone!
“Where didst leave the Ladye Annabel, Robin?
Who was the Arab Mute? Where is he now?'
“I left her in safety, most sagacious Guiseppo.
And as for the Mute—I'll tell thee anon. How
didst feel when I came to assist thee in escaping
from the dungeon; oh?”
“O! St. Peter! By my troth it would make
a picture. There I sat upon the bench of stone;
the dim taper flinging its beams around the rough
walls of the damp cell; my elbows resting upon
my knees, and my face supported by my clenched
hands; my mind full of dark and gloomy thoughts,
and my fancy forming various pleasant pictures
of the gibbet, which was to bear my dainty figure
on the morrow. Imagine this delicate form swinging
on a gibbet—ugh! Thus was I employed;
when I heard a noise like the drawing of bolts.
I started, expecting to behold the Count Aldarin;
he had visited the cell an hour or so past, and
informed that I had the honor of being—mark ye,
my soldier—his son. I started and beheld—thy
welcome visage, my good Robin.”
“Marry it was well for thee that the secret passage
was known to me. How sayest thou? Did
the murderer aver that he was thy father?”
“Even so. The Count Aldarin, has ever been
kind to me, yet I never thought I was connected
to him by any ties of blood. I have always been
known throughout the castle as the foundling:
Pleasant name—eh, Robin? The tale runs that
a peasant returning home, on an autumn night,
discovered a child some three years old, crying,
in the forest. That child the Scholar Aldarin
adopted, and called Guiseppo; which title was occasionally
varied by the servitors of Albarone, to
that of Guiseppo Stray-Devil, Lost-Elf, and others
of like pleasing character. But whither are we
wandering now, good Robin? This is the second
day of our flight; whither are we bound?”
“Thou wilt know ere long. Didst ever hear of
Sir Geoffrey O' Th' Longsword?”
“What, the stout Englisher! The brave knight
who now commands the soldiers of our late Lord,
in Palestine? He that is noted for the strength of
his arm, and the daring of his spirit? Why
all Christendom rings with his feats.”
“Well, my bird of a page, I have lately heard
by a wandering palmer, that a truce has been
made, between that son of Mahound, Saladin, and
the princes of Christendom. Further it is said,
that a body of the crusaders have sailed from Cyprus,
and are bound to Italy. Dost see aught in
this, my popinjay?”
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“The Saints help thy senses! Surely you do
not mean to say that the soldiers of Albarone are
returning home?”
“Marry but I do. I mean to wend towards the
nearest seaport; I mean to—”
“By our Lady,” interrupted Guiseppo, “I spy
the dawning of our Lord Adrian's day. I do by
heaven!”
And thus conversing they pursued their way
along the forest path.
Higher and higher rose the sun in the Heavens,
and its beams shone upon the armour of a gallant
company that journeyed in brilliant array along
a bye-road leading thro' a wide and extensive
forest.
Near the head of the company, on a stout black
steed, rode a tall, stalwart man, full six feet high,
broad shouldered, in form, with a stern, weather,
beaten countenance. His long white hair, escaping
from beneath his helmet, the vizor of which was
raised, fell upon his mail-clad shoulders, and his
beard, frosted by time and battle toil, swept over
the iron plate that detended his muscular chest.
On either side rode his Esquires, mounted
on horses dark and stout, as that of their knight
commander. They were brothers, and side by
side had fought in a thousand battles.
Both tall, muscular, and dark featured; both
having dark eyes, dark shaggy brows, stiff hair
and beard of the like hue, they were known among
the ranks of the crusaders as the twin brothers—
the brave Esquire Damian, and the gallant Esquire
Halbert. Hard matter it were to tell one
from the other, so much they looked alike, had it
not been that the visage of Damian, was marked
by a sword wound, which extending from the
right eyebrow, passed over his swarthy forehead
and terminated near the left temple; while a deep
gash cut into the right cheek of Halbert, served
to distinguish him from his brother.
In front of the knight, the standard-bearer,
mounted on a cream coloured steed, bore aloft a
broad banner of azure. A winged leopard was
pictured on its folds, and the inscription read thus—
Grasp boldly and bravely strike!
In the rear of the grey haired warrior, a stout
Englishman, riding on a dappled grey, held on
high a crimson banner, bordered by white, on
which was pictured a two-edged sword, having a
long, stout blade, and wide hilt. It bore the
motto—
Hilt for Friend—Point for Foe.
Then, riding at their ease, came the men-at-arms
arrayed from head to foot in their armour of
Milan steel; their lances were in their hands, each
shield hung at the saddle bow, and each sword
depended from the belt of buff. The gallant band
might number an hundred thrice told.
Behind these soldiers came the varlets of the
train, riding beside the baggage wains, conveying
the sick and wounded, who had endured the burning
sun of Palestine, the toil and dangers of the
seas, and were now returning to the land of their
birth.
And there, riding before the baggage wains,
four dark-skinned Moors, mounted on prancing
nags, led each man of them, a steed black as
night at his bridle rein. Untamed they were
and wild, their eyes gave forth a gleam like the
light of the fire-coal, their necks were proudly
arched, their manes flung waving to the breeze,
while with a disdainful toss of their quivering
nostrils, and a light and springing step, the barbs
trode the earth as gallantly as though they still
swept over the desert plains of Araby.
Linked with the chain of this wierd chronicle,
by a strange decree of Fate, these barbs, in
the course of a few brief days, became the Instruments
of the fearful vengeance of Heaven.
“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, as glancing
over the long line of men-at-arms, he gazed
upon the Arab steeds,—“How the eye of Lord
Julian will glisten when he gazes upon yonder
rearing barbs! I' faith it makes an old warrior's
heart beat, to look upon their arching crests, their
eyes of fire, and their skins, black as death!”
“A Paynim warrior gave these steeds in ransom
for his freedom? Is that the story Sir Geoffrey?”
asked Halbert, “Infidel though he was,
he gave a most princely ransom.”
“Hast ever heard the strange legend which
the Arabs tell, concerning this race of steeds?
They prize them, highly as their weight in good,
red gold. It is said that in the olden time, when
Arimanes was hurled from his throne of Evil, by
the Great Being of Good, the spirits of his followers,
accursed and doomed, sought refuge in the
bodies of a race of ebon-colored barbs, that scoured
the plains of Araby with the fleetness of the
wind, herding together in the vast solitudes of the
desert, and untameable by man. At last, after a
long lapse of centuries, the most daring of the
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Arab-chiefs, secured and subjugated to the control
of man, two of these wild horses, from which
sprung the mighty race of the Barbs of Arimanes,
or Demon-Steeds. Yonder steeds, prancing and
rearing in the grasp of the tawny Moors, are of
this race. By my soul, their flashing eyes, give
them some title to the name they bear—the Barbs
of Arimanes!”
“It joys a warrior's heart to look upon their
sinewy forms,” exclaimed the Esquire Halbert,
with a flashing eye.
“They are slender and graceful as the wild
gazelle,” said Damian, “and yet your stout warhorse
of the north, bears not fatigue or toil, with
a better grace!”
“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, “Damian,
art thou not sorrowed at the thought of leaving the
Holy Land—the glorious scene of so many hard
fought frays? I trow, we will all wish to be
again in the midst of the gallant mellay; shall we
not pine for the rugged encounter with the Paynim
host!—What sayst thou, Halbert?”
“He that leaves so brave a battle plain, as is
the Land of the Holy Sepulchre, without a sigh
of regret, is unworthy of the lay of minstrel, or
love of lady. For my part I would all these
truces were at the devil!”
“I say amen to thy prayer, good brother.”
“Well, well, we shall soon reach the castle Di
Albarone, we shall behold our brave leader the
gallant Count Julian. By the body of God, it
stirs one's blood to think of his charge, that ever
mowed down the Paynim ranks as though a thunderbolt
had smote them! St. George! but I have
seen glorious days.”
“By 'r Lady, but I have a sneaking fear that
the wound of the Count may prove fatal.”
“Fatal?” shouted Sir Geoffrey, in a voice of
thunder. “Fatal? Say it not again, Halbert!
Fatal, indeed! By my troth, Lord Julian Di Albarone,
shall again lead armies to battle.”
“I wonder,” said Damian, “I wonder if that
skulking half brother of the Count, still lives? I
mean, he who accompanied the Lord Julian to the
Holy Lond, some score of years since. How was
he styled? eh, Halbert?”
“Aldarin, I think they called him. Sir Geoffrey,
hadst not a quarrel with the bookworm? Didst
not strike him before the Count at Jerusalem, in
the presence of all the princes of Christendom?”
“Tush, a mere trifle! I mind it no more than
I would the spurning of a peevish cur. But see!
What have we here? Two wayfarers. Ha! one
seems like a disbanded soldier! Spur forward,
my merry men! They may tell us of our whereabouts:
they may give us some news of Albarone
Spur forward!”
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1844], The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner: a romance (R. G. Berford, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf248].
