There was a pause, while two figures clad and veiled in sweeping robes of sable, stole silently thro’ the throng of the men-at-arms, and stood beside Robin the Rough.
“Will no man hear the last words of a—father to his child?”
“I—I—will bear the message—” exclaimed one of the sable figures, speaking from the folds of his robe—“I will bear thy dying words to the Ladye Annabel!”
Aldarin trembled. He knew the voice; and strange memories came crowding around him, as he fancied the tones of his murdered brother living again in that husky sound.
“Bear the parchment scroll to the Ladye Annabel. Tell her—tell her—it came from the hands of one who loved her thro’ life, and gave his lost thoughts to her, in the hour of a fearful death. And look ye man—” he continued in quick and gasping tones—“ye need not tell her, how her father died—ye need not speak of his doom—say to her, that Aldarin died in his bed.”
“I will—I will—as God lives I will!”
“Tell her that Aldarin with his last words, blessed her with the blessing of the God in whom she believes!”
“It shall be done!” exclaimed the voice, and the hand of the veiled Figure grasped the parchment scroll—“It shall be done!”
Robin turned from the scene, and gazed above. “How say ye men of Albarone—” he shouted pointing to the Barbs of Arimanes—“shall the Wild Horses, rend the body of the murderer into atoms? Is our sentence just?”
There arose from rock, from hill, from valley one shout—“It is the judgment of Heaven—the judgment of Heaven!”