The Figure stood silent and immoveable, its face shrouded and its form robed from view, the dagger glittering above the head of the Duke, brilliant as a spiral flame, while the light of the lamp held by Aldarin, shone on the upraised hand, revealing the sinews, stretched to their utmost tension, while the clutched fingers prepared to strike the blow of death.
And at the very instant, as the Figure of Sable emerged from the hangings of the couch, at the back of the Prince, there silently strode from the folds of the tapestry on the other side of the bed, a veiled form, clad from head to foot, in a robe of ghostly white.
While the Figure in garments of sable, raised the dagger above the head of the Duke, the strange Form, arrayed in the sweeping robe of white, disappeared behind the hangings of the couch, on the side opposite the Scholar Aldarin.
“Curse the traitors—they have their deserts!” again exclaimed the Duke. “Count, how succeeds my suit with the Ladye Annabel? Dost think she affects me? Eh, Count?”
“Marry, does, my Lord Duke—this slight wound in thy shoulder will detain thee at the castle for a few days. Thou wilt have every opportunity to urge thy suit, and, and—the day of your nuptials shall be named whenever thou dost wish!”
And as Aldarin spoke, the knife rose glittering in the hands of the Sable Figure, and a pale face, marked by the glare of a wild and flashing eye, was thrust from the folds of the robe of black. It was the face of Albertine.
“Now, by St. Antonia, but that is pleasant to think of,” exclaimed the Duke, as, complacently surveying his figure, he passed his hand over his bearded chin and whiskered lip—“as thou wishest me to name the day, my Lord Count, be assured, I shall not return to Florence without being accompanied by my fair bride—Ladye Annabel Duchess of Florence. It sounds well—eh, Count?”
A smile passed over the compressed lips of the Count, and a glance of wild joy lit up his piercing eyes, as he thought of the fulfillment of the dream of ambition that had haunted his soul for years.
“It does indeed sound well, my Lord Duke,” he calmly replied, as he proceeded in his employment of dressing the wound. There was a pause for a moment, a strange, dread pause, while the hands of the Sable Figure trembled, as though Albertine, was nerving his soul for the work of death.
“My Lord Count, how curious it seems? eh? Count?” exclaimed the Duke in a tone of vacant wonder.