“What means the darkness?” Adrian shouted, drawing his sword; “Hist! I hear a footstep. It passes over the throne. It passes between me and thee Annabel; yet I see no form, I hear no voice.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” The wild laugh again rose upon the dark and twilight air.
“He stands by my side!” shrieked the Ladye Annabel; “It is he—it is my father!”
And she trembled with affright, and leaned shrinking upon the arm of the Duke, while her fair blue eyes dilated with a strange expression, and her glance was fixed in one wild dread look upon the darkened air.
“It is done!” exclaimed a voice breaking from the vacancy of the air; “It is done! Fair daughter of mine, thou art Duchess of Florence—the coronet is on thy brow—all is fulfilled!”
“Holy Mary, save me!” shrieked Annabel in a low whispered tone; “an icy hand is pressed upon my brow. It is like the hand of death.”
And as there she stood upon the throne of gold, her form upraised to its full height, her eye fixed on vacancy, and her fair white hands trembling with an unreal fear, a feeling of terrible and overwhelming AWE over-shadowed each heart, and paled each face, while the solemn tones of the spirit voice broke on the ear of the lovely bride.
“In life thou wert my ambition, and in the solemn walks of death, amid the fear that may not be named, and the gloom that may be dared, thy father, maiden, is still the evil angel of all who wish thee harm, or do thee wrong.”
A low moaning sound broke on the air, and again the words of the spirit voice came to the Lady Annabel—
“The last behest of thy father—the parchment scroll, and the phial of silver confided to thy hands—hast thou obeyed the dying words of Aldarin?”