On every side the gleam of arms broke on the eye of Aldarin; on every side the frown of warlike visages met his gaze; and his glance was returned by the ominous glare of a thousand eyes.
The spell broke—the reality sank down upon the soul of Aldarin.
His face was stamped with an expression that brought to the minds of the gazers the horror of a soul plunged into eternal torment from the very battlements of heaven. He extended his right arm with a wild gesture, and clenched the hand until the sinews seemed bursting from the skin: his lips parted; his jaw sank to his very breast, while his full gray eye glared like the eye of the tiger at bay, rolling its glance from side to side, dilating every moment, and flashing like a meteor.
“Ibrahim—Ibrahim—I am betrayed!” he shrieked, turning to the Arabian. “Albarone to the rescue!”
He turned to the Arabian, he beheld him standing calm and erect beside the altar of ebony. He advanced to his side, and as he raised his hand to grasp the robe of the stranger, he started backward with a howl of despair whose emphasis of horror may not be described in words.
The snow-white beard, the gray hair, the white eye-brows, fell from the tawny face of Ben-Malakim, and Aldarin beheld the visage of—Albertine, the Monk.
Then it was that the soul of the old man sank within him, then it was that he raised his trembling hands aloft, shaking them madly in the air, while a wild yell of execration burst from the Phantom Band.
“Men of Albarone!” arose the shout of the gray-haired knight; “Behold the murderer of your Lord!”
“Behold the brother-murderer!” shrieked the stout yeoman, standing at the side of Sir Geoffrey. “These eyes beheld him hug his brother in the foul embrace of murder!”
And as he spoke the band of men-at-arms came pressing slowly and solemnly on, glittering swords flashed in the light, and low muttered cries of vengeance broke on the air. Closer and more close they gathered, while Albertine stood silent and motionless regarding the scene.