“But you have blood on your hands and it is on the table—this smell is of blood—and human blood,” added the younger man, passing his hand over his brow streaming with perspiration.
“Ha, he has a subtile scent,” said the old sage. “Not only does he recognize blood but can tell it is human, too.”
Looking round, Balsamo perceived a brass basin half full with a purple liquid reflected on the sides.
“Whence comes this blood?” he gasped.
He uttered a terrible roar! Part of the table, usually cumbered by alembics, crucibles, flasks, galvanic batteries and the like, was now clothed with a white damask sheet, worked with flowers. Among the flowers here and there, spots of a red hue oozed up. Balsamo took one corner of the sheet and plucked the whole towards him.
His hair bristled up, and his opened mouth could not let the horrible yell come forth—it died in the gullet.
It was the corpse of Lorenza which stiffened on the board. The livid head seemed still to smile and hung back as though drawn down by the weight of her hair.
A large cut yawned above the clavicle, but not a drop of blood was issuing now. The hands were rigid and the eyes closed under the violet lids.
“Yes, thanks for your having placed her under my hand where I could so readily take her,” said the horrible old man; “in her have I found the blood I wanted.”
“Villain of the vilest,” screamed Balsamo, with the cry of despair bursting from all pores, “you have nothing to do but die—for this was my wife since four days ago! You have murdered her to no gain.”