The old man raised himself on one hand, grasped the hand of the maddened boy, as he gazed silently into his face, while his very soul seemed absorbed into some unreal dream of horror.
“My son,” he whispered with a mournful smile, “and the dagger in my heart—”
“Thy son!—ha, ha?—I could laugh till the very heavens echoed my voice!” and as he spoke, Aldarin, the Scholar, looked backward toward the castle steps, where the boy knelt beside the dying knight. “Thy son—ha, ha, ha!—and the dagger in thy heart! Yes, yes, it thy son? Sir Geoffrey, a parting word: dost thou remember a blow—aye, a blow from the mailed hand of a warrior, a blow which struck the Scholar to the floor while the princess of Christendom stood laughing round the scene? Dost thou remember the insult, the contumely, the scorn. Then look upon the face of thy boy, whom I stole and reared to be thy murderer, look upon his youthful face, peruse each feature, and—a smile stole over his face—think of the vengeance of Aldarin, the Scholar.”
With cries of execration, with yells of vengeance, the men-at-arms gathered around the fratricide, and as their brandished swords shone in the light, they bore him towards the castle gate, leaving the slab of stone before the pillars of the castle door to the solitary companionship of the father and son.
It was true—darkly and fearfully true—Guiseppo was the son of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword.
Guiseppo was kneeling upon the stone; his arms were gathered around the form of his father, and his eyes were fixed in one long gaze upon the face of the dying man.
He marked the hue of that venerable countenance as it grew paler every moment: the lip white and colorless, the eyes wild and wavering in their glance, the livid circles gathering like the taint of corruption beneath each eye; he beheld the signs and heralds of coming death; he heard the quick gasping struggle for breath, and yet he spoke no word, he uttered no sound of agony.
“I see her face in thine,” murmured the old man, as he gazed upwards upon the countenance of his son. “It is no dream,—and—and—thy dagger is resting in my heart!”
Guiseppo was silent.
“Boy, look not upon me with such fearful agony—thou art forgiven!” gasped the old man. “Raise the hilt of my sword to my lips; I would kiss the cross ere I die. And now thy hand is firm, seize the haft of the dagger, and draw the blade from my heart.”