“Fall back, vassals of Albarone. Let Aldarin, brother of the late Lord, advance!”
Aldarin advanced with a sneer upon his pale countenance.
“Ha—ha!” he muttered to himself, “they think to frighten me with their senseless mummery—their childish mockery! Frighten Aldarin with superstition—Aldarin, who believes not in their God! Ha—ha! I am here,” he continued aloud—“What would ye with me?”
“Old man!” exclaimed the Stranger-knight, “look upon the corse of thy murdered brother.—Behold the features pale with death; the clammy brow, the sunken cheek, the livid lip—look upon that corse, and say you did not do the murder!”
The men-at-arms looked on with intense interest, their forms clad in iron armor, were crowded together, and every eye was fixed upon the Scholar.
The face of Aldarin was calm as innocence, as he replied—“I did not do the murder!”
“Give me thy hand—place thy fingers upon the livid lips of the corse.”
Boldly did Aldarin reach forth his hand, and touch the compressed mouth of the mailed corse.
The lips slowly parted, and a thin stream of blood emerged from the mouth, and trickled over the lower lip and down the chin, staining the gray beard of the deceased warrior with its dark red hue.
The men-at-arms shrunk back with sudden horror, and each soldier could hear the gasping of his comrade’s breath.