“A gruesome story, Marchese. Now, shall we return?”
“Villain!—assassin!—look at your hands—they are wet with her blood—your lips—they have drunk her blood, but ‘tis their last draught—for——”
Sir Percival sprang at the man and caught him by the throat, but in an instant his hands relaxed. He had only strength to glance round. He saw the woman who had stabbed him, before he fell forward.
“That one was for her—for her—my beloved sister. This one is for our dear brother—the man whom you wronged. This——”
She stabbed him again. His blood mixed with the crimson stains on the earth.
“Look at it—bear witness that I have kept my oath,” cried the Marchesa. “Did not I swear that his blood should be drunk by the same earth that drank hers?”
“Beloved one, you are an angel—an avenging angel!” cried the Marchese, embracing his wife.
The next day Sir Percival Cleave’s horse was found dead at the foot of one of the cliffs; but the body of the “unfortunate baronet”—so he was termed by the newspapers (English)—was never recovered.