“Well, as far as an honest man may, so far do I promise.”
The scholar Aldarin mused a moment and then said carelessly—“Was it not an exceeding wicked deed, this murder of my good brother?”
“Aye, marry was it,” replied Robin, looking fixedly at Aldarin—“and the fiend of hell, himself, could not have done a more damned, or a more accursed thing.”
“True good Robin,—’twas a horrid murder. What could have prompted Adrian to raise his hand against his father, eh? good Robin?”
The Yeoman did not reply. He cast his eyes to the floor and confusedly fingered his cap.
The Count Aldarin—so must I style him—reached a folded parchment from a writing desk and then asked—
“Why dost thou not speak, good Robin? What art thinking of?”
“Why, heaven save your lordship,” said Robin, speaking in a whisper, and gazing full in Aldarin’s face, “I was just wondering whether the murderer embraced the Count ere he strangled him?”
Aldarin started aside—his features were writhen into a fearful contortion, and his whole frame shook like a leaf of the aspen tree. Again he turned his visage, it was calm, as the face of innocence, and a smile was on his pinched lip.
“Receive thy warrant as Seneschal of the Castle of Albarone,” said Aldarin, as he held forth the parchment—“nay, kneel not, good Robin; keep thy seat.”