Guiseppo gazed upon the face of his father with a vacant look, yet still he uttered no word.
“Draw the dagger from my heart!” gasped the dying man.
Guiseppo seized the haft of the dagger, and slowly drew the blade from the heart of the murdered man.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
THE FATE OF THE FRATRICIDE.
THE ELEMENTS ARISE IN BATTLE, DARKENING THE EARTH WITH THEIR STRIFE, AS THE WIND SHRIEKS THE DEATH-WAIL OF ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR.
Onward toward the castle gate, walking to his death, and yet receding from the grave at every step, with the fierce faces of the avengers frowning around him, with cries of execration and deep muttered oaths of vengeance deafening his ear, onward toward the castle gate, with an even step and an erect form, strode the Scholar Aldarin an icy smile on his lip, and a sombre light in his eye.
He knew not why they bore him onward—fearless of death, come in what form it might, he cared not.
The castle gate was reached. A dark-robed monk rushed from the shadow of the massive pillars, and while his white hairs waved in the morning breeze, he raised a cross of iron aloft in the sunbeams—
“Sinner—there is mercy above—even for thee! Behold the symbol of that mercy!”
“Ha—ha—curses on thee and thy symbol of—mercy! thou shaveling! Were not my hands stayed by these cowards I would strike ye down in my very path! I curse ye all!” he shrieked, gazing around the crowd—“I blaspheme your religion, I mock your * * *! Will ye not strike? Aldarin laughs at your steel! Are ye afraid of a weak and trembling old man? Fear ye the Scholar, even in his last hour? Lo! my breast is bare—I defy the blow!”
“Thou wilt have striking enough presently,” cried Robin the Rough—“Throw open the castle gate there. Let the portcullis be raised and the drawbridge lowered.”