“Sir Duke,” exclaimed Aldarin, as though he had not heard Adrian, “the encrusted substance which fell from the death-bowl may be poisonous—”
The small white ball, which the Duke had absently clenched in his fingers, fell to the floor, and every ear heard a ringing sound as it fell, and every eye beheld the fragments splintering as it touched the floor. The whole substance had vanished, and along the floor there rolled a massive signet ring, glittering with a single ruby.
The Duke of Florence stooped hastily and again grasped the ring; he held it aloft, and shouted, in a tone of amazement and horror—
“It is the ring of the murderer, dropped by accident into the death-bowl! It bears a crest and an inscription—look, Signor Aldarin—canst make out crest or inscription?”
Aldarin replied with a look of horror—
“The crest, ’tis a Winged Leopard—the motto—‘Grasp boldly, and bravely strike!’ Both crest and motto are those of Albarone”—his voice sank to a death-like whisper—“Lord Adrian—behold—it is, it is the signet-ring of Albarone!”
Aldarin turned with a voice of fierce emphasis—
“Thy question has its answer—let the signet-ring tell the tale. Adrian, oh, Adrian,” he continued, as his voice changed with mingled compassion and anguish—“what moved thee to this fearful deed? Oh, that I, a weak old man, should live to see my brother’s son accused of that brother’s murder!”
“This is some damning plot!” calmly responded Adrian, though his chest heaved and swelled with the tempest aroused in his soul—“Tell me, Signor Aldarin, what were the contents of the ‘soothing’ potion administered by thee to the late Lord Julian at daybreak?”
“Tell me, good Albertine, thou didst aid in its composition, and thou canst witness when I gave it to my murdered brother.”