“The sands have fallen to within five minutes of the time!” madly shrieked Aldarin. “The charm may yet be complete!”
He wildly turned from the advancing knights and yeoman, he turned towards the Tabernacle, he heeded not the cries of execration that arose on every side, he trembled not at the frown of the Demon-Form towering far, far above.
He turned towards the Tabernacle, he was about to rush within the folds of the sable hangings, when he started back to the very breast of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword, with a wild exclamation of joy.
There, before his very eyes, in front of the sable tent, stood a youthful form, clad in a dress of glittering white, his arms folded on his breast, while with his face drooped on his bosom he gazed fixedly at the visage of Aldarin, and as he gazed the night-wind played with the floating locks of his golden hair.
“Behold, behold, men of Albarone,” shouted Aldarin, with a wild laugh of joy, “your lord hath arisen from the dead! Before your eyes he stands, calm and mighty; youth in his heart, and power on his brow! Ha—ha—ha! I did—I did slay him! But I have raised him from the sleep of death! Behold—ha, ha, ha!—behold!”
A breathless stillness followed his words.
“Slave of thine own wild delusion,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, as he advanced, “thou art gazing upon the form of Adrian Di Albarone.”
“The avenger of his father’s blood!” shouted the form, advancing to the light. “Murderer, behold thy doomsman.”
Aldarin bowed his face low on his breast, and veiled his eyes in his hands, while a sound like the death groan rattled in his throat. His was no common agony. His was no mortal sorrow. His bosom trembled not with the throes of grief for the wife stolen by death, or the child torn from his embrace by unknown hands; the tears he wept were not visible tears, pouring from his eyes along the furrowed cheek. No, no.
His soul wept within him, tears such as giant souls alone can weep, when a mighty Thought is slain, when the IDEA of a life is crushed.