It was in sooth, a strange and impressive scene.
The dim light afforded by the lamp of silver, pendent from the ceiling, glimmering over the hangings of the fatal bed, along the folds of the tapestry and around the massive furniture of the room—the figures of the scene, the aged man and the kneeling boy; Aldarin with his face agitated by contending passions, with his eye gathering a brightness that seemed supernatural, while Guiseppo half prostrate at his feet, raised his hands to Heaven and with every feature of his countenance darkened by revenge, looked above with flashing eyes as he uttered the response—“I swear—I swear!”
It was a strange and impressive scene—and the flitting shadows that fell over the hangings of the bed and along the floor, seemed to start into life at the deep earnest tones of the Avenger.
“The name of the Destroyer—my father—his name—his name!—”
The Count Aldarin stooped low, applied his lips to the ear of Guiseppo and whispered in a quick and hissing tone, the name of the Destroyer.
The kneeling Lord turned pale as death, as with a trembling voice he repeated the well known name.
He bowed his head on his breast, and clasped his hands in very agony.
“My fate,” he shrieked, “is dark—oh Father of Heaven, most dark!—--”
“Rise Guiseppo, my son,” said the Count Aldarin in a commanding tone. “Rise Guiseppo, Lord of Albarone!”
“My father—your look is serious, and yet you utter but a merry jest. Methinks it ill becomes the hour.”