“He lives!” she repeated, her countenance once more expressing radiant hope, as the sudden gleam of sunshine bursts forth amidst the last drops of the April shower.
But, almost at the same instant that she uttered those words, her eyes caught sight of the inscription at the foot of the picture; and, bounding forward she read it aloud.
“Holy Virgin! I am deceived—basely, vilely deceived!” she continued, all the violence of her grief, which had begun to ebb so rapidly, now flowing back upon her soul; then turning abruptly round upon the stranger, she said in a hoarse hollow tone: “Signor, wherefore thus ungenerously trifle with my feelings—my best feelings? Who art thou? what would’st thou with me? and wherefore is that portrait here?”
“Agnes—Agnes!” exclaimed her companion, “compose yourself, I implore you! I do not trifle with you—I do not deceive you! Your grandsire, Fernand Wagner, is alive—and in this house. You shall see him presently; but in the meantime, listen to what I am about to say.”
Agnes placed her finger impatiently upon the inscription at the bottom of the portrait, and exclaimed in a wild, hysterical tone, “Canst thou explain this, signor? ‘January 7th, 1516,’—that was about a week after I abandoned him; and, oh! well indeed might those words be added—‘His last day thus!’”
“You comprehend not the meaning of that inscription!” ejaculated the stranger, in an imploring tone, as if to beseech her to have patience to listen to him. “There is a dreadful mystery connected with Fernand Wagner—connected with me—connected with these two portraits—connected also with——”
He checked himself suddenly, and his whole form seemed convulsed with horror as he glanced toward the black cloth covering the neighboring frame.
“A mystery?” repeated Agnes. “Yes—all is mystery: and vague and undefinable terrors oppress my soul!”
“Thou shalt soon—too soon—be enlightened!” said the stranger, in a voice of profound melancholy; “at least, to a certain extent,” he added, murmuringly. “But contemplate that other portrait for a few moments—that you may make yourself acquainted with the countenance of a wretch who, in conferring a fearful boon upon your grandsire, has plunged him into an abyss of unredeemable horror!”
Agnes cast her looks toward the portrait of the tall man with the magnificent hair, the flashing blue eyes, the wildly expressive countenance, and the symmetrical form bowed with affliction; and, having surveyed it for some time with repugnance strongly mingled with an invincible interest and curiosity, she suddenly pointed toward the inscription.