He flung the bowl aside, but ere it left his hand it was received in the quick grasp of the monk; he raised his chained hands on high, and ere they were lowered, his Bride lay panting on his breast!
Oh, where is the magic of human words that may picture the deep and fearful interest of that meeting, the gush of contending feelings, the rapture sparkling in the eye and beaming from the lip, the heart all pulsation, the blood all fire, the arms flung convulsively round each other’s neck, the look of the Doomed, the long, last, lingering look upon the face of the beloved, her upturned eyes, her cheek now crimson and now snow, her tresses of gold waving over her robes of white, and her form of beauty flung over his bosom, with every vein swelling with delight, every nerve quivering with joy!
They meet as lovers meet, when, standing on the opposing rocks of Time and Destiny, they fling their arms across the chasm, nor heed the vast eternity that yawns below, ready to engulf and destroy.
“Drink not, oh, Adrian, drink not—the bowl is drugged with death!”
“The time is up,” muttered the hoarse voice of Balvardo—“The guards are within call, good monk, an’ he refuses the dose.”
“Adrian Di Albarone,” cried the monk, fixing his full and solemn eyes upon the chained knight, “drink the bowl, I implore thee! By the memory of the Cell of the Doomed, by the memory of the Chapel of the Rocks, by the memory of the perils we have shared, the deaths we dared together, in the name of thy father, whose ghost now looks down upon thee, in His name, most solemn and most dread, I adjure thee—drain the goblet to the dregs!”
“Dark and mysterious man,” cried Adrian, sharing the wild glance of Albertine, “give me the bowl, I drink——”
“Adrian, for my sake touch it not—poison nestles like a snake within its depths!”
“Hold me not, Annabel—grasp not my arm—”
“For the sake of God, oh, do not, do not drink!”