“It is the face of the dead”—muttered Albertine, gliding hurriedly toward his place of concealment while the Duke was absorbed by the awe-stricken visage of Aldarin, whose very soul seemed starting from his eyes as he gazed upon the apparition—“It is the face of the dead—The time of the Betrayer hath not yet come!”
And as he spoke he disappeared, without being observed by either the Duke or Aldarin, while the Scholar, beheld the curtains on the opposite side of the couch rustling to and fro—he looked and the Spectre was gone.
“This is some vile trick!” cried Aldarin, grasping the sword of the Duke from the couch as he spoke. “Let the mummers, whoe’er they are, beware the vengeance of the Scholar!”
He rushed to the other side of the couch, he lifted the hangings, but discovered no one. With a hurried step, he turned to the tapestry that adorned the walls, and thrust aside the embroidered, folds. The secret door was closed, and he beheld neither sign nor mark, that might tell of aught concealed within its pannels.
And as Aldarin continued his hurried search, the Duke leaning back on the couch, felt some hard substance pressing against his side. Thrusting his hand along the couch, he felt the handle of a dagger, thrust from its resting place, and with a trembling arm, held the steel aloft in the light.
“It bears an inscription—Saints of Heaven, let me read—
‘The Vengeance of the Monks of the Holy Steel.’”
And at the same moment, the Count Aldarin, leaned trembling against a pillar for support, and quaking in every nerve, one fearful thought possessed his soul as he murmured in a hollow whisper.
“Haunted, forever haunted—by thy gloomy shade, my murdered brother!”