The Count answered hurriedly, as if a sudden light burst upon him:
“Ah! the Virgin save us! good Aldarin, art thou here? Surely, I saw Adrian and Annabel but a moment since? Surely—”
“Nay, my brother;” answered Aldarin, “’twas but mere phantasy. Annabel is not with us, nor is my Lord Adrian here; but I, dear brother, I am by your side.”
Speaking these words in a voice tremulous with affection, Signior Aldarin passed his left arm around the body of the Count, while the other enclosed his neck. He clasped him in an ardent embrace, as he continued:
“I am with you, dear brother; I will minister to your slightest wish; I, Aldarin, your own devoted friend.”
Here he inserted his right hand beneath the long gray locks of the Count, and clasping his neck, pressed him yet closer to his bosom.
“Kind Aldarin,” the Count began, but the sentence was cut short by a piercing cry, and the right hand of Aldarin clutched tighter and tighter around his brother’s throat.
“Nay, brother, thou shalt have rest, an’ thou wishest it,” cried Signor Aldarin. “There, sleep softly, and pleasant dreams attend you!”
The Count fell heavily upon the bed; his blood-shot eyes protruded from his blackened face, a livid circle was around his throat, and a thin line of blood trickled from his mouth. A sigh, heavy, deep, and prolonged came from his chest, and the murdered man ceased to live.
“The fiend be thanked!—it is done!”