At the very instant, the tapestry in a dark corner of the Red Chamber rustled quickly to and fro, as a figure, muffled in a sweeping cloak of crimson, emerged into view, and treading across the tesselated pavement, with a footstep like a spirit of the unreal air, it approached the beaufet of ebony, and a white hand, glittering with a single ring, was extended for a moment over the goblet of gold.
The Ladye Annabel placed the head of Lord Julian gently upon the pillow of down.
The glittering ring shone in the sun, as it fell in the goblet of gold, and the hand of the figure, white as alabaster, was again concealed in the thick folds of the crimson robe.
The Ladye Annabel, with her delicate hands, parted the gray hairs from the sick man’s face, and swept them back from his brow.
The figure in robes of crimson, strode with a noiseless footstep across the apartment, and sought the shelter of the hangings of tapestry, with as strange a silence as it had emerged from their folds.
Without taking notice of the white dust that covered the bottom of the empty goblet, Annabel filled it with generous wine, and approached the bedside of her uncle. The Count raised himself from the pillow, and lifted the goblet to his lips. As his wan face was reflected in the ruddy wavelets of the wine, he fixed his full large eyes upon the lovely face of Annabel, with a look of affection, mingled with an expression so strange, so solemn and dread, that it dwelt in the soul of the maiden for years.
He drank, and drained the goblet to the dregs.
“Thank thee—fair niece—thank thee.”
He paused suddenly, his arms he flung wildly from him, a thin, glassy film gathered over his eyes, a gurgling noise sounded in his throat, and he fell heavily upon the couch.
His features were knit in a fearful expression of pain and suffering, his mouth opened with a ghastly grimace, leaving the teeth visible, the lips were agitated by a convulsive pang, and his eyes, sternly fixed, glared wildly from beneath the eyebrows woven in a frown.