Aldarin glanced around the throng, he marked each stalwart man-at-arms, each strong-limbed yeoman of the guard, and then his chest heaved and his eye flashed as he shouted—
“Seize him, men of Albarone, seize the murderer of your lord!”
He pointed to Adrian Di Albarone as he spoke. There was one wild thrill of terror and amazement, spreading through the group, a confused murmur, bursting involuntarily from every lip, and then all was still as death.
Not a man stirred, not a servitor moved, but all remained like statues, clustering round the group in their centre, where Aldarin stood with his slender form raised to its full stature, his arm outstretched and his eye flashing like a flame-coal, while Adrian gathered the Ladye Annabel in his good right arm, and gazed upon the Signor with a look of concentrated scorn.
“Seize him, guards”—again shouted Aldarin—“seize the Parricide!”
There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and the form of the stout yeoman emerged from the group.
“Not quite so fast—marry, my good Signor, not quite so fast”—he cried as he advanced. “By St. Withold, I have followed my old lord to many a hard-fought fight, I have served him by night and by day, with hand and heart, for a score of long years. Shall I stand by, and see his brave son suffer wrong?”
“What means this wild uproar?” exclaimed a calm yet half-indignant voice, as the stately dame of the Lord Di Albarone, yet unaware of her bereavement, crossed the threshold with a lofty step and an extended arm, advancing, with the port of a queen, to the centre of the group. “Vassals—what means this wild uproar? Know ye not that your lord lies deadly sick? Brother Aldarin, I take it ill of you to suffer the clamor! What can our liege of Florence think of ye, vassals, when he beholds ye thus assail the sick-chamber of your lord with noise and outcry!”
The stately dame pointed to a richly attired cavalier, who had followed her into the apartment. He was a well-formed man, with a face marked by no definite expression. His dark hair gathered, in short, stiff curls around a low and unmeaning forehead; his small dark eyes, protruding from his head, seemed to be trying their utmost to outstrip his faintly delineated eyebrows; the nose, neither aquiline, classic, or Judaic, seemed composed of all the varieties of nasal organ; his upper lip was garnished with a portion of the wiry beard that flourished on his prominent chin; his lips were thick and sensual, while his entire face was as inexpressive as might be. The throng bowed low, as they became aware of the presence of the guest of their late lord. They bowed to the Duke of Florence.
“Adrian, my son,” cried the Lady of Albarone, turning to her son in utter amazement, “what means this scene of confusion and alarm?”