Scarcely had Albertine disappeared, when there was the sound of trampling feet in the outer apartment, and presently the figure of his Grace of Florence occupied the doorway, while the heads of his followers were seen looking over his shoulders.
He looked around the apartment with a curious eye, as if he sought the wanderers. At last his glance rested upon the form of the disguised Annabel, and advancing toward the damsel, he flung himself at her feet, exclaiming with all the grace of attitude and expression at his command.
“Fair Ladye, it is with joy beyond the power of words to tell, that I hail thee by the title of the—Fair Ladye Annabel, Countess Di Albarone!”
“How sayst thou?” exclaimed Annabel, forgetting her boyish disguise in her eagerness, “How sayst thou? Ladye of Albarone?”
“Aye, fair Ladye. Thou art now the Countess Di Albarone, soon shalt thou be my own loved Annabel, Duchess of Florence.”
The Duke leaned earnestly forward, trying to look as much like a lover as might be—his face wore an expression of deep solemnity, his protruding eyes made an effort to sparkle, and his attempt to soften his voice, gave one the idea of a magpie trying to sing.
Annabel cast an agonized look at the Duke—
“Sayst thou nought of my father?” she exclaimed. “Is he sick?—is he ill?—Tell me that I may hurry to him!—For heaven’s sake tell me!—my father is—”
“Dead!” cried the Duke.
“Dead!” echoed the dame, starting with surprise.