Sir Percival took another orange and made a pretence of eating it. His hands trembled so, however, they were soon dripping with the crimson juice.
“You are caught red-handed in the act,” said the Marchese, “red-handed— but the man who came here long ago was not so captured.”
“Another medieval story?” said Sir Percival. “Had your Excellency not better reserve it for the evening?”
“This story is not a medieval one; and it can only be told on the spot,” said the Marchese. “You have never been here before or you would not need to be told that this orange-grove was until seven years ago an ordinary one. It was not until blood was spilt here seven years ago that the fruit became crimson when bruised, and blood—your hands are dyed with it——flowed from it as you have seen—it is on your lips—you have drunk of her blood—Paolina’s.”
“For Gods sake let us leave this place!” said Sir Percival hoarsely. “I have heard enough stories of bloodshed.”
“Nay; this one is so piteous, you shall hear it and weep, sir—ah! tears of blood might be drawn from the most hard-hearted at the story of Paolina. She was a sweet girl. She lived with her sister, who is now the Marchesa——”
“Good God!”
“What amazes you, sir? Is it remarkable that my wife should have had a sister?’
“No, no; of course not; I was only surprised to find those horrid marks still on my hands. Pray let us return to the Castle and permit me to remove the stains.”
“Poor Paolina!—she lived at the Castle with our aunt seven years ago. She was a flower of girlhood. I thought myself in love with her; but when my brother Ugo—he was the elder—confided in me that he loved her, I left the Castle. He loved her, and it seemed that she returned his affection. They were betrothed, and one could not doubt that their happiness was assured. But one evil day she met a man—a scoundrel; I regret to say that he was an Englishman—do not move, sir, you shall hear me out. This villain spoke to her of love. He tempted her. She was accustomed to meet him every evening on this very spot—we learned that he sailed from Sorrento and climbed the cliff. My brother began to suspect. He followed her here one evening, and she confessed everything to him. He was a passionate man, and he strangled her here—here—and then flung himself headlong from the cliff.”