And like a vast unbounded ocean, overhung with mists, and dark with clouds, was the idea of the Dread Unknown to his mind.
Amid all the memories of the past; the agonies of the present, or the anticipations of the future, did the face of the Ladye Annabel come like a dream to his soul, and the smile upon her lip was like the smile of a guardian spirit, beaming with hope and love.
“Oh, God—receive my soul!—Annabel, fare thee-well!”
The dagger descended, driven home with all the strength of his arm.
“Adrian!” exclaimed a hollow voice, and a strange hand thrown before the breast of the doomed felon struck his wrist, the instant the dagger’s point had touched the flesh.
The weapon flew from the hand of Adrian and fell on the other side of the cell.
He turned and beheld the muffled form of a monk, who had entered through the massive door, which had been unbolted without Adrian’s heeding the noise of locks and chains, so deep was his abstraction. The ruddy glare of torches streamed into the cell, and the sentinels who held them, in their endeavors to shake off their late terror and remorse, gave utterance to unfeeling and ribald jests.
“I say, Balvardo,” cried the sinister-eyed soldier, “does not the springald bear himself right boldly? And yet at break of day he dies!”
“Marry, Hugo,” returned the other, “he had better thought of making all these fine speeches ere he gave the—ha—ha—ha!—the physic to the old man.”
Reproving the sentinels for their insolence, the muffled monk closed the door, and approaching Adrian, exclaimed—