“I aided in its composition—it was harmless—I saw thee minister the potion to Lord Julian.”
“Thou alone, Aldarin, thou alone hast had access to this chamber since daybreak”—spoke Adrian, with his calm eye fixed full on the Signor’s visage—“Now tell me who it was that drugged yon bowl with death?”
“Balvardo, thou didst stand sentinel at yon door from daybreak until high noon—did a soul enter the Red Chamber from the first moment to the last second of thy watch?”
“Not a living man”—muttered the hoarse voice of Balvardo from the crowd—“not a soul save the Ladye Annabel.”
“Search the apartment!” shouted the Duke; “the assassin may be yet lurking in some dark nook or corner!”
The doors were closed, the search commenced. Every nook was ransacked, every corner thrown open to the light, not even the bed of death, with its pillows of down and its hangings of purple, was spared.
While the search was in progress, the Countess of Albarone awoke from her swoon, and striding from the recess of an emblazoned window, where the Ladye Annabel remained glancing with a vacant look over the strange scene progressing in the Red Chamber, she was soon made aware of the fearful crime charged upon her son, the signet-ring and the terrible mystery.
“There is mystery,” she cried with a proud voice, “there is mystery, but—no dishonor!—Who can believe Adrian Di Albarone guilty of so accursed an act!”
“For one, I do not!” bluntly cried the stout yeoman.
“Nor I!” cried one of the servitors; and the cry went round the apartment,—