Having thus spoken, in a voice that came through his clenched teeth, the murderer looked up and saw—the dogged, rough, yet honest visage of the stout yeoman peeping from among the curtains on the opposite side of the bed, his eyes steadily fixed on the corse, and a curious look of inquiry visible in every feature of his face.
The Signior drew back, trembling in every limb, and pale as death. It was a moment ere he recovered his speech, when, assuming a haughty air, he exclaimed:
“Slave, what do you here? Is it thus you intrude upon my privacy? Speak, sir—your excuse!”
The stout yeoman replied in his usual manners speaking in the Italian, but with a sharp English accent:
“Why, most worshipful Signior, you will please to bear in mind that for twenty long years have I followed my lord, he who now lies cold and senseless, to the wars. That withered arm have I seen bearing down upon the foe in the thickest of the fight; that sunken eye have I beheld glance with the stern look of command. By his side have I fought and bled; for him did I leave my own native land—merrie, merrie England,—and I will say, a more generous, true-hearted, and valiant knight, never wore spurs, or broke a lance, than my lord, the noble Count Julian Di Albarone.”
The yeoman passed the sleeve of his blue doublet across his eyes.
“Well sirrah,” cried the Signior, “to what tends all this?”
“Marry, to this does it tend: that wishing to behold that noble face yet once more, I stole silently to this chamber, thinking to be a little while alone with my brave lord. I did not discover your presence, till I looked through the curtains and saw—”
The stout Englishman suddenly stopped; there was a curious twitch in his left eye, and a grim smile upon his lip.
“Saw what, sirrah?” hurriedly asked the scholar Aldarin.