“Avengers of your lord, advance,” shrieked Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; “advance, and seize the murderer!”
Aldarin turned; a thought flashed over his soul.
Three minutes of the last hour yet remained. The sands of the glass had not yet fallen. That little shred of time gained, he might yet complete the charm; the mystic age of toil might yet be rewarded by the immortal boon.
He flung himself at the feet of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; yes, yes, the proud and unrelenting Aldarin threw his form prostrate on the cavern floor, and, with upturned gaze, clutched the knees of the knight.
“Give me, give me but three minutes of life—three minutes alone, and then ye may lead me to the death.”
The knight trembled: he had been prepared for scorn and defiance, but not for tears.
For a moment he hesitated.
“Away with his magical pranks, away with his works of hell!” arose the shout of the stout yeoman, as, with one rude grasp, he tore the tented hanging of the Tabernacle from the poles which supported their folds. “St. Withold! what infernal cookery have we here? Thus, thus I scatter the magical fire—thus I overturn this coffin of iron! Gather around, ye men of Albarone: scatter the works of this demon along the floor of the cavern!”
It was the work of an instant.
While Sir Geoffrey trembled: while the monk Albertine stood beside the altar of ebony, veiling his face in his hands; while even Adrian, the son of the murdered, hesitated and paused, ere the request of Aldarin was refused, the men-at-arms, led on by Rough Robin, overturned the coffin of iron, heated as it was to a white heat, and scattered the embers of the fire over the floor. The nameless secret of the coffin he concluded beneath the dark hangings of the Tabernacle.