Aldarin stamped his foot with rage, and shrieked—
“By the Eternal God! but this is brave! Will ye see me murdered before your eyes! Seize—I say—seize the traitor!”
“Benedicite!” muttered the venerable abbot, gazing upon the wild face of Aldarin; “the fiend is among us!”
As he spoke, the Duke of Florence all daintily apparelled in his wedding dress, with surprise and vexation pictured in every lineament of his countenance, broke through the throng, exclaiming—
“My Lord Count, thy daughter is no where to be found. The Ladye Annabel hath gone: no one knoweth whither!”
“My Lord Duke,” said Aldarin in a whisper, “can’st thou tell me who is the stranger?”
“Eh?” exclaimed the astonished Duke, gazing upon Aldarin with a vacant stare.
“He I mean who standeth by the altar. He in the sable armor—with the pale brow and the eyes of fire—with the dark plume overshadowing his helmet! By heavens, I behold under his plume the crest of the Winged Leopard!”
“By our Lady, but thou describest the late Count Di Albarone. Mayhap he comes from the grave to witness against his son, the vile parricide, he who hath fled with thy daughter. May the fiend curse him for’t!”
“Fled with my daughter? my daughter fled?” shouted Aldarin, as he suddenly seemed to break the spell that bound him.