“Did he speak aught of attacking the Castle Di Albarone?”
“After a lapse of seven days, it was resolved to attempt the surprisal of the Castle. From the vague hints I gathered, it seems that their plans were not well matured. Three days of the seven are now passed, and—”
“The attack will be made four days from this! By my Soul! it pleases me! Ha—ha—ha—Guiseppo, remember thy oath, the steel and the pacquet.”
And as he spoke, the Count Aldarin strode toward the door, his face flushed by a wild glow of exultation, as he communed with himself in a low, murmured tone.
“Four days—ha—ha—ha! Four days glide by—and Aldarin is immortal.”
Guiseppo was alone.
He gazed vacantly through the gloom of the Red Chamber and passed his hands over his eyes, as if in the effort to awake from some fearful dream.
All was solemn and silent around him, and he resigned his soul to dark memories, while the weary moments of that fearful night glided slowly on.
At last he sank down on the cold floor and slept.
A vision of his mother, his own beautiful and dark-eyed mother, rose smiling above the waves of sleep, and then the boy thought she stood beside him, holding a dagger in her fair white hand, while she beckoned him on to the work of vengeance.