“Lorenzo, trembling, received the glass from the hands of the monk; tremblingly he put it to his lips. ‘To my dearly-beloved brother Jeronymo!’ he stammered out, and replaced the glass with a shudder.
“‘That was my murderer’s voice!’ exclaimed a terrible figure, which appeared suddenly in the midst of us, covered with blood, and disfigured with horrible wounds.
“Do not ask me the rest,” added the Sicilian, with every symptom of horror in his countenance. “I lost my senses the moment I looked at this apparition. The same happened to every one present. When we recovered the monk and the ghost had disappeared; Lorenzo was writhing in the agonies of death. He was carried to bed in the most dreadful convulsions. No person attended him but his confessor and the sorrowful old marquis, in whose presence he expired. The marquis died a few weeks after him. Lorenzo’s secret is locked in the bosom of the priest who received his last confession; no person ever learnt what it was.
“Soon after this event a well was cleaned in the farmyard of the marquis’ villa. It had been disused for many years, and was almost closed up by shrubs and old trees. On digging among the rubbish a human skeleton was found. The house where this happened is now no more; the family del M——nte is extinct, and Antonia’s tomb may be seen in a convent not far from Salerno.
“You see,” continued the Sicilian, seeing us all stand silent and thoughtful, “you see how my acquaintance with this Russian officer, Armenian, or Franciscan friar originated. Judge now whether I had not good cause to tremble at the sight of a being who has twice placed himself in my way in a manner so terrible.”
“I beg you will answer me one question more,” said the prince, rising from his seat. “Have you been always sincere in your account of everything relating to the chevalier?”
“To the best of my knowledge I have,” replied the Sicilian.
“You really believed him to be an honest man?”
“I did; by heaven! I did,” answered he again.
“Even at the tine he gave you the ring?”