“Lo! my knife is whetted for thy blood!”
“Hold!” exclaimed the strange knight, “let him have his request!”
Aldarin arose and drew from his vest a small missal, with clasps of gold, and covers that blazed with jewels.
“I would pray,” he exclaimed meekly, as pressing the clasps of the missal, it flew open, discovering not the leaves of a book of prayer, but a hollow casket. Taking a small phial of silver from the bottom of this casket, he held it hurriedly to the flame of a torch, and then with as much haste, he applied the mouth of the phial to a bright stone that was fixed under the lid of the casket.
The stone emitted quick flashing sparks of fire, and a light misty smoke emerging from the mouth of the phial, spread like a cloud around Aldarin, and rolled through the vault in waving columns.
It was accompanied by a pungent odor, which, far sweeter than perfume of frankincense and myrrh, stole over the senses of the astonished spectators, gradually benumbing their limbs, and depriving them both of motion and consciousness.
The figure in azure armor rushed forward to seize the murderer, but his limbs refused their office, and he fell upon the platform of stone, his armor ringing as he fell. At the same moment, while the smoke grew thicker and the odor more pungent, the men-at-arms—both those who stood upon the platform and those who thronged the steps of stone—fell to the earth as one man. The ancient Esquires drew their daggers and advanced.
The Count Aldarin gave a derisive laugh.
“Dogs!” shouted he, “ye knew not of my last resort! I hold a power above your grasp—receive the reward of your insolence. Down, ye slaves!”
Flashes of fire played like lightning in the wreaths of smoke. The Esquires tottered and fell prostrate among their fellows.