“To whom dost thou refer, my Lord Count?” inquired the Priest.
“S’life!” exclaimed the Count in a voice that trembled from some unknown cause; “S’life! I mean the stranger—he in the dark armor, with the raised vizor and that ghastly face. Dost not see him?”
“My Lord, there is no one before the altar attired in armor. Around us are the throng of Lords and Ladies—but all are arrayed in robes of peace. Mayhap you speak of one of the men-at-arms who stand yonder, near the door of the chapel?”
“Shaveling! I mean the stranger who stands in front of the altar. He with the plume as dark as death falling over that pale and lofty forehead. He who gazes so fixedly with those glassy eyes—gazes and looks, yet speaks no word. By Heavens, he means to mock me. I will strike him down even where he stands!”
He advanced hurriedly to the front of the altar, and in an instant the bystanders beheld him striking his dagger in the air, while his pale features were convulsed by a strange expression.
“Thou shalt not escape me!” he shouted.—“Elude me not—I’ll have thee, coward! This to thy very heart! What, art thou dagger proof? Guards, I say, seize this traitor! Albarone to the rescue!”
It was with a feeling of indefinable awe, that the bridal throng beheld the Count Aldarin standing with his eyes strained from their very sockets, his brows woven together, and his whole face stamped with an expression which was neither terror nor hate, but seemed a mingling of terror, hate, and despair.
Two courtiers sprang at the same time from the group, crying as they drew their swords—
“My Lord, where is the traitor? Who is’t?”
“Shall I be slain upon my own ground? Where is the traitor? Before your eyes he stands. He! I mean. Look—look! Behold! he leans upon the altar! He smiles in scorn—he mocks me!”