His head drooped upon his breast over his folded arms, his eyes dilated to their utmost, glaring vacantly on the earth, while his lips moved in broken murmurs, the Scholar ascended the steps of stone, as the Page observed him from the shadow of a massive pillar.
“It hastens, it hastens to perfection—THE MIGHTY SPELL! The marriage—ha, ha, Duchess of Florence!—HE shall live again—ha, ha! the world shall not say Aldarin toiled in vain! The secret—a few more days—Aldarin lives forever!”
And as the murmurs broke wildly from his lips, the Scholar disappeared within the shadow of the hall door, leaving the careless Guiseppo to the memory of that fearful face. It was an appalling memory. Guiseppo’s cheek grew pale, and his whole frame trembled with an indefinable fear.
How long he remained in this state he knew not, but after a long lapse of dreamy reverie, he was startled by a slight tap on his shoulder.
Looking around, he beheld the beaming eyes of the fair Rosalind fixed upon him with a glance which for the moment banished the face of Aldarin from his mind, and made his heart knock sadly against his breast.
“What wouldst have, Rosalind?” The maiden whispered in his ear.
It was curious to see the change that came over the countenance of the page; the pallor vanished from his visage, which swelled out on either side as though he had an orange in each cheek, his lips were curiously pursed, while his eyes rolled about in his head after a strange fashion.
“Eh? Rosalind?” he cried, as if he had not understood her aright.
Again did the maiden whisper in his ear.
“By our Lady!” exclaimed Guiseppo, “but this does exceed everything that I ever did hear. Art not crazed, sweetheart?”