CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. THE STUDENT AND THE FAIR STRANGER.
The bell of the convent of St. Benedict struck
the hour of noon, when a young man, attired after
the manner of a student, or Neophyte of the monastic
order, was slowly wending his way along
the path that led to the cottage on the hill, while
on his arm there hung a youth of calm, mild features,
shaded by light locks of golden hair, and of
a slender, yet graceful figure.
Tall, sinewy, and well-proportioned in form, the
face of the student was marked by features bold
and decisive in their expression; his blue eye was
full of thought, and his forehead, high and massive,
shaded by the cap of velvet, gave the idea of
a mind powerful, energetic, and formed to rule
His hair fell in clustering locks of gold down over
his neck and shoulders; his plain tunic of dark
velvet descended to his knees, revealing a doublet
of like material and color worn underneath, fitting
closely to his manly form; while his throat was
enveloped by a simple collar of snow-white lace.
His companion wore a neat doublet of light
blue, fitting close around the neck, scarce allowing
the pretty ruffle that circled the fair throat to
be seen, and reaching half way down the leg, it
was gathered around the slender waist by a girdle
of plain doe skin. His light hair was covered by
a hat, with the rim drawn up to the crown on one
side, and slouching upon the other, while it was
topped by delicate white plumes, fastened by a
diamond broach.
Winding amid the fragrant shrubbery that enclosed
the path, the student and his companion attained
the top of the hill, and passing through the
small garden, they presently stood before the neat
cottage, which, shadowed by a spreading beach on
one side, meeting the foliage of a leafy chesnut
on the other, was overrun in front by a spicy vine,
that clomb over the timbers of the doorway, and
twined round the solitary casement, the broad
green leaves quivering in the beams of the sun,
and the trumpet-shaped flowers swinging to and
fro in the wooing air.
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The student tapped at the door. It was opened
by a woman somewhat advanced in life, attired in
the dress of a peasant, yet with a cross of chony
strung from her neck. Her look was somewhat
severe and stern, her demeanour was commanding,
and her figure still retained some remains of
youthful beauty.
She started as she opened the door, and an unfinished
word burst from her lips.
“Ah! Adr—tush! Leone, I mean—thou art
early home to-day, my son.”
“Mother,” said the student, “this is my fellow
scholar Florian, son to the Baron Diarmo of Florence.
In yonder convent we pursue our studies
side by side, in one apartment. An hour since,
as we strolled through the gardens adjoining the
convent, my friend missed his footing, and severely
bruised his ancle. Our home being nearer
than the convent, I thought I could not do better
than bring him hither. I need not commend him
to thy care.”
“Thou art welcome, fair sir,” the dame replied,
with a kindly smile. “Enter our abode; 'tis
humble, yet 'tis sacred, for the bounty of the convent
bestows it upon my son and me, while he is
preparing for the priesthood. Come in, gentle
Florian.”
They entered the cottage, and the door was
closed.
No sooner had they disappeared than something
rustled in the bushes, and the bow-legged
postillion, Francisco, emerged into the light.
“Oh—ho!” he cried, “here's a mystery. The
convent allow old Mistress Vinegar-face to reside
on their land, in their cottage, while her son is
preparing for the priesthood! A likely story, by'r
our lady! I see it all—'tis as I suppose—these
two striplings are those for whom such an immense
reward has been offered in the neighboring towns
and villages. Will not gold line my pouch as well
as any other wight's—eh? Via! Francisco!
Postillion no longer, but henceforth Signior Francisco!
Via!”
Thus saying, he walked away with folded arms
and a gigantic stride; and as he stalked away,
the tall Dollabella, the red-haired Theresa, and
black-eyed Loretta appeared from the bushes on
the other side of the cot, and, bursting into a loud
laugh, they tripped after the swelling postillion.
Meanwhile, within the cot, resting on a cushioned
seat, the gentle Florian submitted his foot
to the hands of the dame, who drew off the shoe
and stocking, and applied ointment to the bruise;
remarking, at the same time, that the foot was
one of the smallest, and the ancle one of the prettiest
in the wide world.
The student glanced at Florian, and smiled.
“Mother,” said he, “I must away to the convent.
Methinks it were better for gentle Florian to rest
him here awhile. I will return anon, and accompany
my fellow scholar along the shores of the
lake to the monastery.”
He kissed the cheek of the fair boy, and departed.
Looking up into the rosy face, and catching
the glance of the bright blue eye of the modest
youth, the dame exclaimed, as she finished the
dressing of the wound:
“Fair sir, if it please thee to grace our humble
tenement with thy presence for the night, thou
canst share the bed of my son. Methinks it were
best for thee not to stir hence until the morrow.”
“I thank thee, kind lady,” the youth began, in
a voice sweet as infancy.
“Lady, say'st thou? I am but a peasant woman.”
Florian blushed.
“Nay, pardon me—I meant no offence. Indeed,
it seemed—”
The youth paused, while the blush deepened on
his cheek.
“Never heed it, fair sir. This way is Leon's
room. Mayhap thou wouldst like to repose thee
awhile.”
Florian followed her into a small apartment,
with a window toward the east, a neat bed in one
corner, a crucifix on the mantle, and a table, on
which lay a missal of devotion. The dame retired.
Florian stole noiselessly to the door, and
drew the bolt. Then seating himself upon the
bed, he covered his face with his hands, and the
tears stole between the fair fingers fast and bright,
like drops of sunlit rain.
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1844], The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner: a romance (R. G. Berford, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf248].
