Arnold bent his head with deep dejection on his bosom, while his thin, white hands, quitting the keys of the organ, fell listlessly on his lap. His slight, fragile form stooped languidly forward, the fictitious, feverish strength which had hitherto sustained him disappeared, and left him weak and powerless.
The first dawn of a winter's morning, mingling with the light of the wax-candles burning in the Gothic chandelier, formed a sort of artificial glare, gloomy as that of tapers burning in daytime around the bed of death. This unnatural light fell direct on the forehead and cheekbones of Arnold, who still sat with his head drooping on his breast; while through his long downcast eyelashes might be observed the fixed eyeball lose the clear lustre of its limpid blue, and become motionless and rigid. His fingers, too, were stiffened by the intensity of the frost, for the fire had long since been extinct in the vast chimney.
Again the bell rang forth its shrill summons, but this time the call was more imperative and repeated twice.
The prince seemed to start from a lethargic slumber. He rose as though by a powerful and painful effort, and proceeded to the other end of the gallery, the only entrance to which was by a low and thick door, heavily barred with iron.
With an air of mistrust and suspicion, Arnold half opened a small wicket formed in the door, then asked, in a feeble voice,—
"Is that you, Frank?"
"Yes, Arnold, 'tis I. This is the day. Here, my dear child," answered another and somewhat cracked voice,—"take the box, will you?"
"You are quite sure 'tis you, Frank?" repeated the prince.
"Why, in the name of all the saints, who should it be if not old Frank? Open the door—you shall see me from head to foot."
"Oh, no, no!—not to-day."