“I must, I must! It is not thy hand, Albertine, that gives the bowl—it is the hand of Fate, thrust from yon blackening cloud, which all my life has thrown its shadow over my path! Give me the bowl—though ten thousand deaths were darting from each sparkle of the wine, still—I drink, and drain the goblet to the dregs!”
In vain the upraised arm of the Ladye Annabel, in vain her look of fear, her voice of horror!
As she clung to his chained arms, he raised the goblet to his lips, he drained it to the dregs.
“He smiles,” muttered Balvardo, “the monk smiles as he gives the death-bowl! I see not his cloven foot, nor do I see his horns—not a whit o’ ’em. Else might I suspect the devil were lurking in yon monkish robe.”
Adrian handed the goblet to the monk.
Albertine received it with a deep and meaning smile.
Scarce had the hand of Adrian been extended in the act, than his arm fell like a weight of lead to his side, and Annabel felt her lover leaning heavily upon her shoulder, while her fair arms might scarce stay him in his fall to the floor.
“Monk,” cried Adrian, as, sinking upon one knee, he fixed his ghastly eyes upon the face of Albertine; “monk I trusted thee, and thou art false!”
“His brow is cold,” murmured the Ladye Annabel, as, sinking on her knees by his side, she supported Adrian’s head upon her virgin bosom. “See! the big drops of the death-dew stands out from his forehead—and this, monk, this is thy work!”
As the terrible look of the dying man met his eye, Albertine seemed struggling with some terrible pang, but when the words of Annabel and her look of intense agony came like a death-bolt to his heart, he hurriedly advanced, he looked at the group, he spoke in a voice tremulous with agitation, yet deep and solemn in its every accent—