The morning sunshine, streaming through the
deep silled casement of the convent cell, filled the
lonely chamber with light; the arching roof and
the pavement of stone, the dark grey walls, thronged
with monkish effigies, and the distant corner
of the room, all glowing with warm glimpses of
the daybeams, while a solitary soldier strode
slowly along the floor, his brow darkening with a
frown, as, with his clear blue eyes fixed on vacancy
his mind was absorbed in dark and painful
thought.

“St Withold! and all the Saints in heaven or
earth save me now!” he absently muttered, as his
right hand grasped the hilt of his good sword.—
“Here's a new wonder, a fresh mysterie! Three—
three days agone—we were all fighting and
slashing, leading murderers to death, and pulling
Dukes from their thrones, daring death in as many
shapes as swords are fashioned, and all for my
Lord Adrian, and lo! we bend all things to our
will, dethrone the tyrant, and fill the people's
throats with an outcry for the new duke, and
what comes next? Answer my good Robin—
answer my old friend—where is the new duke?
God knows, and the Saints might tell, an' we
knew how to ask them, but not a white does Rough
Robin know about the matter. The old priest
was wont to tell me that the ways of Him above—
off with thy cap, Robin—were full of mysterie.
I never knew what he meant till now—”

The small door of the cell slowly grated on its
hinges, and as the yeoman turned to discover the
cause, he beheld standing before him a cavalier
whose form was attired in glossy purple and
bright gold, yet all soiled and tarnished with dust,
while his young face, all pale and careworn, bore

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traces of the fearful struggle that had shaken his
soul within the past few days.

“Ah—Guiseppo! Pale and careworn—thine
attire covered with dust—thy broken plume sweeping
o'er thy brow—whence came ye boy, in
such attire and in such a ghastly trim?”

“I greet thee, good Robin. Yesternight I left
the Castle of Albarone—this morn I journeyed
from the walls of Florence.”

“Thou dost bear a message?”

“I come from the nobles and the people of
Florence! Three nights agone the old walls of
the fair city rung with the clash of arms and the
peal of trumpet, while the tramp of contending
foemen shook the floor of the ducal palace, and
the glimmer of their swords was reflected in the
very mirrors of the Tyrant-Duke. The morning
dawned at last, and dawned on Florence, no
longer oppressed by the tyrant or awed by the
vassals of his power. Then it was that the nobles
of Florence named their new Duke, then it
was that the people confirmed their choice, while
the solemn High Priest of the Invisible, by
a parchment scroll affixed to a pillar of the grand
cathedral, pronounced his blessing on the fortune
of Adrian, Count of Albarone and Duke of Florence—”

“Thus far all was well. Then ye learned the
mysterious disappearance of Lord Adrian? Speak
I the truth, Guiseppo? The dark scenes which
three nights agone gave new legends of horror to
the walls of this convent of darkness? The
death-bowl administered by the hands of Albertine—
the watch of the Ladye Annabel beside the
corse—the disappearance of the body, and what
troubles me but little, the disappearance of the
tyrant-duke? A thousand such dukes might disappear,
and we could tell, without a doubt, what
became of them all, `the devil takes care of his
own' saith the adage—”

“Hast thou no word of the Lord Adrian?”

“Ask the tombs in the aisles of the convent
chapel, which yesternoon we ransacked in search
of his body, and let their yawning mouths tell
the story of our fruitless labor. St Withold!
scarce a foot of earth in the convent garden that
we did not turn to the sun in our search—not a
cell in the earth-hidden recesses of this foul den,
that we failed to illumine with the glare of our
torches, not a wizard nook or a blood-stained
corner in this devil's hall, but was laid open to
the light, in our strange chase after the body of
the dead! And it was all in vain, Guiseppo, all
in vain!”

“The Ladye Annabel—hast thou no word of
her, Rough Robin?”

“St. Withold, I see her now! Traversed we
the dark walls in search of the corse? She went
with us, tho' her feet sunk ankle-deep in the dust
of the dead, at every step. She led us on to the
fatal room, where the corse had been stolen from
her grasp, while bewitched by the drugged potion;
she pointed the way to the dark cavern beneath
the convent, and when every heart failed, awed
with supernatural fear, she, even the fair and gentle
Ladye Annabel, still cried on, and on! An'
the saints shower not their blessings on her head,
I'll turn Paynim-hound, and kiss the crescent!”

“Dwelleth the Ladye still within the Convent
walls?”

“Since the hour of our search yesternight, she
hath shrouded herself within the recesses of the
apartments furnished for her use by the vassa
of Albarone, when they hastened hither, two days
agone. Hast thou a message for the Ladye?”

“I bear a message for the Ladye, and a parchment
scroll for the Invisible! Robin come
hither—a word in thy ear!”

With the mystic sign of a Neophyte of the
Holy Steel, he asked the way to the solemn place,
where the order assembled holding their secret yet
mighty councils.

“Even now they hold their solemn council, within
these convent walls,” answered Robin the
Rough—“In a moment I'll lead thee to the secret
chamber. Yet stay a single moment Guiseppo.
Thou knowest I left the castle on that fearful day,
when, when, od's death I cannot name the deed—

“That blow, Great God, will the memory never
pass from my brain! Thou wouldst speak of—of
my father?”

“Does the old man live?”

“When thou didst leave the castle, I stood
watching silently beside the door of the chamber
where lay my father, my own father, stricken down
by the hand — the hand of his own son.”

“You watched beside the door, while the leech
who had been hurried from the City of Florence
disrobed your father, and probed the dagger
wound?”

“And I—I, stood trembling beside the door

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waiting the appearance of the leech, every moment
expecting to hear the words—`thy father is dead!
Dead—murdered by his son!' I stood beside the
chamber door, all alive with horror, my fancy picturing
the dagger, which but a few hours agone, I
had drawn from his heart, the point crimsoned
with one fearful stain of blood, there I stood, fire
in my brain, and hell in my heart, when—”

“Ha, ha, ha—Ho, ho, ho! I have the brand,
the flaming brand,” a wild and maddened voice
awoke the echoes of the corridor leading to the
cell, with its tones of maniac yell. “Ho, ho, ho! I
have the brand, the flaming brand! Look ye how
it flashes on high, 'tis a serpont, a merry serpent
with tongue of fire! Ha, ha, for the brand, the
flaming brand!”

The small door of the cell, grated on its hinges,
and in the very centre of the pavement, brandishing
a fire brand over his head, there stood, a weak
and trembling old man, his thin face, with the vacant
eye and hanging lip, flushed with madness,
while his voice half shriek and half yell, rang echoing
round the room. “The brand, ha, ha the flaming
brand! Ha, ha, ye brought the old man no
food! Ho, ho, ho, Old Glow-worm and his comrades
starve, yet there is a merry blaze in the vault below
I trow! Rafters are all aflame, massy bolts are red
with fire, and my comrades go shouting merrily
thro' the long vaults, waving their brands on high,
and singing a joyous song as they go—